


running with your eyes closed

by perfchan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Garrison trio being rad, I'm Sorry Shiro, Keith does a lot of self comfort and it breaks my heart, Keith is the smooth one, Long Distance Pining, M/M, Mild Smut, Offscreen smut, POV Alternating, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Slow Build, but separate from the main plot, canonverse, crying? in the first chapter? its more likely than you think, keith and lance are kinda having a Bad Time, post s5, season 5, we're going to sci fi town lads hold on to your space helmets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-03-31 15:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13977585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Being lost versus feeling lost. Remembering versus imagining. Time versus distance.Leaving things left unsaid versus not saying what he means.Having the courage to close the gap versus the realization that someone needs to bring him back.When a solo mission for the Blade takes an unexpected turn, Keith is left stranded.When Voltron’s alliance with Lotor and Shiro’s strange behavior have mixed everything up, Lance is left wondering where he fits into this new team dynamic. This is a complicated story about time and space and fighting and persevering, and the simplicity of connection.





	1. Keith I: you wanna hear about the deal i’m making?

**Author's Note:**

> this isn’t quite the fic I thought I would be writing post s5, but I have high hopes for it all the same. hope you enjoy:

***

 

Keith flips the game piece idly in his hand while contemplating his next move. It’s digital, the piece, like the board he’s studying---the pixels have no weight; he can’t feel it against his skin. It flickers as he twists it back-and-forth, around his index and middle finger with his thumb. With his other hand, he pulls a blanket closer around his waist. Tilting his head, the piece stills in his palm. He plucks at one corner of the game board to rotate it. At the shift in perspective, he clicks his tongue. 

 

The game is like chess. Except the board hovering in front of him isn’t flat, exactly, and it’s not checkered, and the different pieces don’t have rules attached to them in quite the same way. So not chess. But it is a strategy game that requires a certain amount of concentration, and that’s probably why he doesn’t immediately realize that Kolivan is standing in the doorway of his bunk. 

 

He startles when he catches the familiar vertical scar and guarded posture out of the corner of his eye. 

 

Kolivan’s expressions are engineered to reveal nothing, but the slight flick of his ears tells Keith he probably has been standing there for some time. 

 

Uh. His bad. Keith opens his mouth, but Kolivan cuts him off---

 

“Briefing in Hak-P151 in half a varga. Pertinent background information has been sent to your datapad.” Without waiting for Keith’s response, he exits. 

 

“Yessir,” Keith parrots to his empty room. His eyes drop back down to the game.

 

Gingerly, he places the piece, finally making his long awaited move. The computerized opponent immediately captures his piece, as well as about half of his territory. Keith huffs in frustration, although he’s not surprised---he’s yet to win on any level beyond beginner. He makes a motion with his hands like he’s folding a book shut, and the game slips into nothing. 

 

Rolling the tension out of his shoulders, he blindly reaches across the bed for his datapad. 

 

*

 

It’s an extraction mission, Kolivan tells him half a varga later in Hak-P151. (Which is slightly ridiculous because it’s just him and Keith and there’s nothing special about this meeting room. He could have just as easily assigned the mission in Keith’s bunk. But Kolivan is nothing if not fastidious, and missions are briefed in certain rooms and his bunk is not one of them. Keith thinks, the wry smile never quite crossing his lips, that for a leader of rebel forces, Kolivan is quite the straightedge.) 

 

“There was mention of an agent on the ground.” Keith flips through the details on his screen. 

 

“Correct.” Kolivan remains impassive. “We have reason to believe that agent is no longer available for contact.” 

 

Dead, then. Keith’s mouth settles into a grim line. 

 

Kolivan shifts and the light betrays how exhaustion has creased heavy lines under his eyes. “Your mission will have one objective: recover the information gathered by our agent.” 

 

Between them, Kolivan pulls up a star map. “You’ll leave at 0400. Following this route, the planet will have completed one and one-half rotations by the time you reach orbit. Entering the atmosphere here,” he pinches and opens his fingers, drawing the planet into sharper focus, “should place you in close proximity to the last known location of the data chip in question.” 

 

The route seems manageable enough. The mission, simple. That can’t be everything. 

 

“Not only have we lost contact with our agent, but long range scans abruptly ceased showing signs of life on the planet.” Kolivan pauses, perhaps to let this information sink in. “The reason is unknown. Scans have failed to provide any evidence of an outside attack, nor any internal triggers: wars, bio-malevolence, etc. This was a thriving, advanced civilization prior to Galra occupation. Three quintants ago, the agent had no remarkable changes to report. But now, no one is there at all.” 

 

It’s more than a little suspicious. The Galra occupying the territory. The Blade member. The planet’s inhabitants. Everyone, every living thing on the planet...just. Vanished. But, Kolivan stresses to him, that is not his concern. The data is what he is after. Anything else,  _ anything  _ beyond recovering the chip, will be left to another mission. 

 

* 

 

The briefing complete, Keith makes his way to the mess hall. His ship will need rations, and although he’s not hungry, he should try to eat too. It’s late, well past the scheduled time for the evening meal. The kitchen is dark. 

 

There shouldn’t be anyone else around, but as he enters, two figures seated at one of the long tables stir. It’s Faix and...he’s not sure of the name of the other, although he’s seen the two of them together before. Raan? Rada? 

 

Keith gives them a brief nod before he realizes they’re seated so close, Faix is practically in her lap. Their faces drawn together, tilted, just shy of touching....Raan’s hand drops from Faix’s cheek. Faix is whispering something to her, smoothing down the sides of Raan’s mussed shirt. Their conversation falls to a hush. 

 

Oh.  _ Oh. _

 

“Sorry,” he says dumbly, unsure if he’s supposed to apologize or not. His voice seems to boom, bouncing off all the sharp corners of the empty room, and it makes him cringe. He feels like they’re watching him--two pairs of cat-like eyes, glinting out of the darkness. Neither of them respond. He makes quick work of collecting what he needs, resolutely avoiding that side of the room. 

 

“Take care on your mission,” Faix instructs as he exits the kitchen, her tone not unkind. He nods. Raan watches him leave with narrowed eyes. 

 

Walking quickly to the hangar, he stocks the cruiser he’ll be taking. By now, he’s flown nearly every vessel available to him, but this is one of his favorites. Slim and sleek and black, she’s fast ( _ not as fast as Red _ , his mind appends, unasked) but more importantly, she’s stealthy. Long range scans are not infallible---who knows what could be waiting for him under the planet’s atmosphere. He wants to come and go unseen. Practiced hands check the various instruments, no longer alien to him, prepping her for flight. The process calms his nerves, focuses him to a clear task. Satisfied, he heads back to his bunk. There’s about three hours before he departs and he should try to sleep. 

 

Sleep is a struggle. Anticipation for the mission ahead thrums through him, but really, it’s because he’s thinking of Faix and Raan, and the quiet, tender moment he interrupted. He didn’t realize that any of the Blades had that kind of relationship. He’s surprised and...something else that he can’t quite name. Jealous, maybe? The way Raan had brushed her cheek, thumbing past a soft smile...

 

But, he tells himself, it’s pointless to think about. He wouldn’t know what to do with that kind of quiet intimacy. He opens his eyes and begins a faceoff with the smooth, spotless ceiling. 

 

Uninvited and unwelcome, a memory rises into his mind:  

 

It was when Shiro had returned to the Castle of Lions, but Keith was still acting as leader. ( _ Acting _ being the key word. The Black Lion was never meant for him, of that he’s certain.) 

 

Lance had come to him, called him leader, smiled thin with an insecurity that Keith never would have expected of him. Spoken about “One paladin too many.” Spoken about being extraneous. Stepping down.  

 

Keith had fumbled his way through a few words of encouragement, wholly inadequate, considering the rawness of emotion Lance had shown. And, although Lance seemed satisfied with his piss-poor attempt at comfort, Keith couldn’t get it out of his head. Days later, he was still searching for better words, the things he should’ve said but couldn’t think of in the moment.

 

He sought Lance out, hoping that it wasn’t too late to give the right response. The rest of the castle was asleep, and he should have been too, but this felt more important. But Lance wasn’t in his bedroom. And he was not in the training hall, or the common room, or the observation deck, where Keith knows he sometimes goes to think. 

 

Lance, when he found him, was on the bridge, sprawled out in a chair, lazily scrolling through text with one hand. 

 

He hears Keith approaching and minimizes it with a frantic click. At his side, Keith squints at the screens, one hand on the back of the chair behind him.  

 

“Hey Keith,” Lance looks up at him, but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “‘Sup?” 

 

“Hey.” Now that Keith is here, all the words he had primed seem stupid. He clears his throat, “What’re--what were you working on?” 

 

“Mmm...Nothing.” Lance motions to some vague spot in front of him, “I was just, yanno, reading the logs from the pod Shiro returned in.” At Keith’s expression he waves his hands, rushing, “Not like his personal logs, but like, the origins of the ship and all that jazz.” He shrugs, “Figured it might fill in some blanks about where he was.” 

 

“That’s…” actually really intuitive. There might be trace elements of where the pod was made, or something that Shiro unknowingly left in the cockpit that might give some clue about his captors, or--

 

“But,” Lance tosses him a grin that even Keith can tell is manufactured, “No dice. I didn’t find anything that we don’t already know.” He looks past Keith towards the door. “Anyways, I should probably…” 

 

“About earlier,” Keith begins. 

 

Lance stiffens. “Keith,” He holds up a hand like he’s said enough. “I got it. ‘Leave the math to Pidge,’ right? I’ll--I’ll stop being a worry-weblum so we’re chill, okay?” 

 

“....Okay.” But there’s something in Keith that refuses to let it go. Lance knew exactly what ‘earlier’ he meant, so that means he’s still thinking about it too, right? He has been supportive of Keith as a leader, grounding him in a way that he desperately needed. Keith wants to return the favor, at least. 

 

“Right. Chill. Frosty,” Lance holds up his fist that’s closest to Keith for a fist bump. He looks up at Keith, finally meeting his gaze. 

 

Keith bumps it, brushing the backs of their hands together. He opens his hand, wiggles his fingers slightly, indicating that Lance should do the same. Lance’s fist unfurls against the back of his, and---before he can think better of it---Keith tilts his palm and knits their fingers together. Lance’s hand is big and warm. His fingers curl perfectly around Keith’s. 

 

He hears the click of Lance’s throat as he swallows. 

 

Self conscious, Keith forces himself to say what he came here to say, looking resolutely ahead. “Lance. You’re important to this team. Really important. Even though,” Keith tries to choose his words carefully, “even though we don’t get along, I’ve never thought otherwise. And. When Shiro was gone, you helped me. A lot. And I never--um. Anyways. Thank you.” 

 

Lance is squeezing his hand so hard. He ventures a glance down and is unprepared to find Lance has his other hand over his eyes, his shoulders tense like he’s drawing in towards himself. Alarmed, Keith tries to withdraw his hand, but Lance is clinging to it like a lifeline. 

 

“Uh,” 

 

“Keith!” Lance fixes him with a deadly glare. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“You!” Lance drops his hand and flings his arms up in some kind of grand gesture of disbelief as he rises to his feet. His eyes are wet. “You can’t just--!” 

 

Keith gives him a blank look in response. 

 

Lance shakes his head. Without any further warning, he closes the distance between them and wraps Keith up in a hug. 

 

Keith attempts to protest but it comes out muffled---his face is jammed against Lance’s shoulder. 

 

“Shush, you!” Lance says, chest so flush with his that Keith can feel the rumble of the words. He mumbles, “Talk about having a bonding moment, now _ this  _ is having a moment. ‘Don’t get along,’ you gotta be quiznacking kiddin’ me, I swear,” 

 

They stay like that for a beat longer. Keith tries not to memorize the feel of Lance’s hair tickling his face, how his arms fit snug around his chest. He tries not to deeply inhale the way Lance smells--soapy and citrus-y and a little sweet. He tries to not let himself get used to the feeling of warmth that’s blooming within him and making it hard to think. 

 

He tries. He tries because, by then, he had already made the decision to leave. 

 

Lance pulls away and it’s awkward but...not bad. He’s looking at Keith with a fondness that Keith’s seen directed at Pidge, at Hunk, at allies, hell, even at Kaltenecker….but never at him. It makes Keith’s heart kick in his chest and his ears burn. He almost says something he shouldn’t but luckily his mouth is dry and the words don’t come easily. And then Lance ruins it by saying something lame, and Keith responds with something prickly and they’re back to their normal routine, but. It’s not bad. 

 

And when they parted that night, he felt like, at least, at the very least, in this instance he had not let Lance down. 

 

He didn’t know it at the time, but that became the last conversation between just the two of them before he left to join the Blades permanently. 

 

Back in his bunk, heart tangled up in memories of watery blue eyes, a deep seated  _ longing _ threatens to unhinge him.  _ That _ was the closest he’s come to hushed, intimate conversations late at night. It’s laughable; it’s so little, even though it seems like so much. And it seems like it was a very long time ago. 

 

He misses him. The feeling overwhelms him. He squeezes his hands together, so tight it makes his knuckles ache. He misses all of them, not just Lance. Shiro. Pidge and Hunk, Coran and Allura. He rolls to his side, draws his legs in, pulls his arms close to his body, presses his folded hands against his forehead.

 

Moments like that are just not for him to have. 

 

The ship is silent, nothing like the hum and whirr and hiss of the ancient Altean castle. He waits for his mission to begin. 

 

*

 

The planet has a name, but Keith doesn’t know it. In his mission notes it was referred to as L-ang01e5s, and,  _ as nicely as that rolls off the tongue _ , memorizing jumbles of letters and numbers has never been his thing. Pidge would be able to explain the classification to him, if he asked. If she were here. 

 

But she’s not. It’s just Keith. It’s just Keith and so when he has to call it anything at all, he calls it ‘the planet.’ 

 

“Currently in orbit at location designated by pre-mission calculation.” Keith makes some minute changes in his settings before easing the cruiser ever-so-slightly downward. “Conditions are optimal for entry. Preliminary scans confirm no sign of hostile forces.” He adds, under his breath: “ _ Preliminary scans confirm fuck-all, there’s nothing there _ ,” too softly for it to go in his official ping back to the base. “Beginning descent into atmosphere in twenty ticks….fifteen….” 

 

Pink poofy clouds offer thick resistance. The small ship shudders around him as he hurtles out of the endless expanse of space, caught in gravity once more. And then, smooth sailing. 

 

“Entry successful,” he breathes out, the adrenaline from flying never failing to make him a little giddy. “Estimated time of next ping back in…” he checks his notes, “Five varga from now. Until then.” Flipping off the comm, he sets a course for the last known location of the data chip. 

 

*

 

Massive skyscrapers needle into the clouds. He takes the craft down lower, into the metropolis, flying over the tracks of a glassy looking bullet train, frozen in place. The buildings are polished and swish: marvels of alien technology, architecture as much art as it is function. 

 

They are also wholly deserted. 

 

As he gets lower to the ground, weaving between hovercars suspended in air, he still sees no sign of life. It’s like….time just came to a grinding halt. And all the people just disappeared. 

 

He lands, the hair prickling at the back of his neck as he steps out of his ship. His breathing sounds tight and foreign in his ears, trapped by his mask. Scans are still showing nothing, no one, but his knife is in his hand at the ready all the same. 

 

The data chip is surprisingly simple to find. The agent who was stationed at this base kept detailed notes about his location. The building the Galra took over and used as a base is abandoned, like everything else. Keith slips in, keeping to the shadows. There’s a central port, unguarded. He retrieves the data, slipping it securely into the pack on his belt. 

 

Like many of the civilizations he’s seen destroyed by the Galra, the planet’s beauty is resilient. Despite the way the Galra base is cut into the city like a wound, evidence of small resistance is all around him. Looping, elegant letters in a language he can’t read spell out translations of harsh Galran lettering, indicating that the people refused to relinquish all control. Ghosts of the planet’s culture are still evident all around him. The kinds of food they ate, the jobs they had....these people should have been present when the Galra Empire will eventually be overthrown. What happened here? 

 

He picks up a stone that’s glinting at him from the sidewalk, turning it over in his hand. Too pretty to be abandoned, it’s smooth and the perfect shade of blue, crystal clear and vibrant. It reminds him of...well. He doesn’t let himself dwell on what (who) it reminds him of. Against his own better judgement---the inner voice that sounds suspiciously like Kolivan telling him it is extraneous to the mission---he tucks it inside the pocket just inside the collar of his suit. It feels cool against his chest. 

 

He’s almost back to his ship. 

 

It’s jarringly quiet. Lights are still on in some of the buildings, so there must still be electricity, but sound seems to have vanished along with everything else. Even the tap of his footsteps on the smooth, glossy walkways seems to disappear before reaching his ears. 

 

He gets too close to one of the store fronts, and an automatic door sweeps open. Keith jumps, stumbling to the side,

 

_ “Man, is this place giving me the heebie jeebies or what!”  _

 

Keith whips around. That was. That was a voice he knows all too well. 

 

“Lance?” he calls out, tentatively, feeling like he’s out of his mind. No response. 

 

_ “Yeah man, my jeeb is like, suuuper heebed, one hundred percent,” _

 

And that was Hunk. He’s sure of it. He can’t tell what direction--

 

_ “Will you guys sh--”  _

 

Pidge’s voice fades out of earshot. And Keith starts running. He’s not even thinking clearly-- _ how could they be here _ \---but he’s sprinting, skidding around corners, straining to hear. His footsteps don’t echo like they should as he races throughout the empty streets. 

 

He runs and runs, logic giving way to desperation completely and abruptly. He runs until he’s out of breath. He runs until his mask is suffocating him and he has no idea where he is. 

 

They aren’t here. 

 

Chest heaving, he bends over to catch his breath. He’s in what appears to be a small park. A fountain trickles silently to his right; a few alien trees break up the urban landscape to his left.  The mask dissipates from his face---a cardinal sin in the Blades, but he can’t be bothered to care. Frustrated, he runs a hand through his hair. “What am I doing?” 

 

He’s straightening up---he must get back on track; he has a mission, a timeline to follow---when he first sees it: the shimmer of metal on the ground. What? He takes a few steps forward. It looks like...a sword? It seems bizarrely out of place compared to the rest of the city. Brow furrowed, he reaches to pick it up, but--- 

 

WHAP 

 

Like a crack of lightning through the air, Keith’s world is suddenly flipped. “What the--!!” He flails, swinging back and forth in the air, his knife slips out of his grip, clattering to the ground--- “Shit!! Fuck!” 

 

A yellow-glowing rope has him by the ankle, suspended several feet in the air. All of the blood is rushing to his head, the nearest Blade member is hundreds of thousands of miles away, his knife is on the ground completely out of reach, and best of all, whoever or  _ whatever _ made this trap has probably just been informed that they are not alone on this planet. He swears again for good measure. 

 

Crossing his arms, he closes his eyes and inhales deeply, trying to steady his nerves. He just needs to focus. The stone seems to throb against his chest. 

 

***


	2. Lance I: let me steal this moment from you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The view from Lance's side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to anyone who read or left kudos or comments on chapter one!! I appreciate you so much!!

***

 

_ Allura is beautiful even when her hair is a mess.  _

 

Is probably not the thought Lance should be having. 

 

Considering that she has his back against the floor and a sword flush against his neck. But, yanno, he’s only human and with lights of the training deck behind her, the borderline frizzy flyaways escaping from her bun create a little halo around the top of her head. Without thinking, he tosses her a wink. 

 

She’s looking down at him, and he catches the exact moment the playful competition in her eyes morphs to something resembling concern. 

 

“Perhaps,” she says, delicate tone completely at odds with the  _ zwish _ of the training sword cracking through the air, as she snaps the holo-blade back into its sheath, “I am not the most ideal sparring partner for you, Lance.” 

 

Lance dissolves the broadsword back into his standard bayard. Heaving in a breath, he tenses back and rolls to his feet in one fluid moment.

 

“Nah.” 

 

Allura has a mildly critical look on her face as she watches him retrieve a couple of waters from the edge of the room. She makes a little noise of worry as he staggers---he doesn’t trip! he’s just tired and this floor is totally uneven---but he waves an arm out with a thumbs-up like,  _ all good! A-OK! _ , before she can say anything about it. 

 

He hands her a water bottle then plops to the floor, chugging his own. They’re the only ones on the training deck, isolated from the rest of the team and it’s quiet. The glug of his water combines with the ambient hum of the castle ship. 

 

She settles down on the floor beside him, turning the bottle in her fingers, before giving it a dainty sip.

 

With a satisfied smack he finishes the bottle, then wipes his mouth off with the back of his hand before resuming the thought: “Anyways, who better to teach me to use an Altean broadsword than an actual Altean?” 

 

“True enough.” Allura’s counterpoint comes quickly. “But I haven’t held a sword in years--practically since I was a child! And to be perfectly frank, you seem to be doing more goggling than learning.” 

 

“Me?! Goggling?!” Lance holds a hand up to his chest in exaggerated dismay. “Princess! I would never!”  

 

“Lance.” 

 

“Princess.” 

 

She fixes him with a weighty side-eye. 

 

“Okay! You caught me!” 

 

He slumps. He really is trying to take this seriously. He’s good with his gun, sure, but he wants to improve his close range skills. He  _ has _ to. Keith---Lance twists the empty bottle violently out of shape---Keith isn’t here. 

 

He feels the loss of their hot headed, sword wielding, original Red Paladin on every mission, during every training drill. It’s been months,  _ months _ , since Keith left to join the Blade permanently, but Lance still catches himself anticipating the flash of Keith’s sword at his side during the heat of battle. 

 

When Lance’s bayard first transformed into the broadsword, it was like a mighty flick between the eyes from the universe itself. (Millions of miles away from the Garrison and he  _ still _ feels like he’s two steps behind Keith??) 

 

Lance clenches his hand into a fist, melodramatic and determined as he announces: “Don’t give up on ol’ Lancey Lance just yet, Princess, I promise you, I’m gonna get this. And no more goggling! Not a single goggle.” He’s trying to keep his tone light, but the next part comes out more strained: “If you give up on me, then who else do I have to learn from?” 

 

He taps the empty bottle against his folded legs in an impatient staccato. He doesn’t want to look at her and see the well meaning sympathy written on her face.  

 

Allura purses her lips. 

 

She sighs, like she knows he doesn’t want to hear what she’s about to say: “Lotor is incredibly proficient.” 

 

“Nope.” Lance shuts the idea down. “Not gonna happen. Nope. Definitely not.” 

 

She reaches over and stills the bottle in his hands. “It has nothing to do with giving up on you.” She meets his eyes and offers him a kind smile, genuine, but also the one she usually reserves for diplomatic matters. “And also nothing to do with the goggling.” 

 

He titters in response, a little self-deprecating. 

 

“I merely think there’s only so much I can teach you. You’d do far better to learn from an actual swordsman.” 

 

Frowning at the ground in front of him, Lance disagrees. “Listen. I know we’re doing a thing where we kinda sorta trust that guy, but I just don’t think it’s a good idea.” He doesn’t want to make Allura mad, but everything to do with Lotor just sends off all kinds of flashing red-lights in his head.  _ Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!  _

 

“Plus,” Lance concedes, “He probably has, like, tons of Prince stuff to do, right? He wouldn’t have time to teach me…”

 

Allura folds her hands, self-satisfied, and that’s how Lance knows he’s lost. “Oh no, not at all. I spoke with him earlier and he assured me that any task to aid Voltron was a task of utmost priority.” 

 

“You spoke with him--” Lance tries one final protest: “Shiro--” 

 

“Shiro agrees with me that your current skill set could be greatly improved upon.” 

 

Lance hangs his head. Of course he does. Against all his better judgement, Lance forces a smile and a chipper tone: “Alright. I’ll give it a shot, if that’s what you really…”

 

“Excellent!” She claps her hands together. “Splendid!” She tells him that she and Lotor have a meeting planned, not even a movement from now, and that she’ll see to all the necessary arrangements. 

 

“Great,” he says, weakly. “Sounds great.” 

 

She rises to her feet, offering him a hand off the floor. When she asks him if he’d like to accompany her to the kitchen for a post-workout snack, he shakes his head. 

 

“Nah, you go on ahead, Princess, I’m just going to run through a few more drills here.” 

 

*

 

By the time he calls it quits, the shirt he’s wearing is soaked through with sweat. He lies on his back on the floor of the training hall, arms and legs spread wide, chest heaving. 

 

It should be satisfying, maybe feel like time well spent, but even as his aching forearms tremble under the weight of his toothbrush later that night, he feels like he probably isn’t enough.

 

*

 

Basically it’s all Keith’s fault. For multiple,  _ numerous, _ reasons. 

 

Let’s evaluate. 

 

Lance, ever since he was little, always had an imagination that could run away. It’s part of what drove him to pursue something as intangible and awe-inspiring as a career in space flight. It’s part of what made him believe that a no-name boy from Cuba could do something great enough to write his name in the stars. It’s part of what gives him the ability to fight now, for something as huge and terrifying and ridiculous as the Good of the Universe. 

 

But sometimes, that imagination of his is running away towards something less productive. 

 

Like fantasies. Featuring Keith. 

 

But they aren’t fantasies, like  _ fantasies _ . Because that word, fantasy, makes it seem like…

 

….

 

….and that’s  _ not _ what Lance is talking about. (The curve of Keith’s lips when he smirks. The way that black tee shirt hugs the swell of his biceps in just the right way. More recently, his tight, perfect ass in that Blade of Marmora suit and the way it clings---okay that’s  _ not _ exactly what he means.) 

 

They’re more like daydreams. 

Embarrassingly enough, it’s a habit that began when they were in the Garrison together.

 

The very first memory he has of Keith is not of his face, or his tragically out of style hair, or his ultra lame fingerless gloves: It was a couple of days into their first week of classes. Orientation was over, the syllabi were reviewed, and lectures were finally beginning. Lance was seated in the middle of the room, nerves manifesting in the way that he was aggressively spinning a pen in his hand. The pen comes to a standstill, however, as a voice, confident enough to be heard throughout the lecture hall, but underpinned with a light rasp as though it were seldom used, cuts through the various noises of the classroom. Answering a question. Lance leans forward, lifting himself slightly out of his chair, so that he can crane his neck and see exactly to whom that voice belongs. 

 

Later on, when he knows Keith’s hair and face and everything else, he imagines being interrupted by that same voice, asking him, “Hey, it’s Lance right?” 

 

That doesn’t happen. 

 

Nor does:

 

Keith complimenting him after he pulls off a tricky shot on a mission outside the Jymarri quadrant. 

 

Keith being jealous when he flirts with a particularly hot Gazorpian (and later almost gets involved in sexual escapades----read: threesome---- that are  _ far  _ over his head and from which Hunk narrowly rescues him). 

 

Keith not only choosing to sit next to him at the Biweekly Paladin Movie Night, but also falling asleep on his shoulder. (Nuzzling into Lance’s shoulder. Maybe he’d murmur Lance’s name in his sleep?) 

 

Nope. Lance can imagine it well enough, but none of that happens. Keith does not compliment him, does not get jealous, and definitely does not fall asleep and murmur sweet nothings against his skin during Tomb Raider XII: Escape from the Franchise. 

 

Sometimes he imagines himself helping Keith: 

 

Keith being incapacitated in some way (not injured---fantasies aside, Lance wouldn’t wish harm on any of his teammates, ever) and needing Lance to tend to him. 

 

Keith seeking him out to ask for advice when he takes over as the Black Paladin.  

 

Keith opening up to him, hesitant. Maybe they would talk late at night if after happening to meet each other unexpectedly in the galley or the observation deck. Keith would be so soft, hair mussed with sleep, looking at Lance through his fringe with his solemn, dark eyes...

 

Nope. Keith never gets sick, he doesn’t like advice, and he seems to sleep soundly through the night. Keith never depends on him like that.  

 

Lance’s daydreams are vivid, but they are very different from his actual relationship with Keith. Even when they’re getting along, Keith hovers somewhere between ‘prickly’ and ‘awkward.’ 

 

But still, Lance’s imagination runs. Sometimes it’s not entirely innocent. Sometimes it gets away from him, right smack in the middle of a conversation. Like. One day: 

 

He walks in, uninvited, to Keith’s room to find Keith’s boots and socks abandoned on the floor, and Keith himself sitting in bed. A blanket is strewn across his lap and one of his legs is folded underneath him. The other juts out---one pale, bony ankle and foot on display. It takes Lance by surprise; he’s never known Keith to have his shoes off unnecessarily and for some reason it strikes him. 

 

He greets Keith, feigning nonchalance, and takes a cursory look around the room, as if he weren’t zeroed in on the stark contrast between Keith’s black jeans and bare skin. 

 

Lance has never considered anything about Keith ‘delicate,’ but his ankle comes close. A slight pink tinges the edges of his toes. He fans them out, ever so slightly, as he adjusts his position in bed, likely waiting for Lance to explain why he’s barged in his room in the first place. 

 

Keith’s heel is surprisingly narrow. Lance is hit with a vision of how nicely it would fit in the palm of his hand, how the callous skirting the edge of it would feel, how Keith might squirm if he kneaded a thumb into his soft instep, or kissed along the sensitive inner skin of his ankle. 

 

Because he would be sensitive right? Unless Lance is very much mistaken, Keith can’t have had that experience before. There’s no way someone has taken their time with this rough-around-the-edges-boy, cajoled and nipped and worshiped every piece of him, unraveled him from the toes up...

 

Mouth dry and fingers itching he imagines himself being the first,  _ let me take care of you, baby, just--- _

 

And almost misses it when Keith asks him a question for the second time. 

 

“Huh?” 

 

“I said, Why are you here?” Leaving a finger between the pages to mark his place, Keith closes his book. “Did you need me for something?” 

 

_ Absolutely _ . “Nah, I just came to tell you that Hunk made brownies.” 

 

Lance blathers on, paranoid that somehow Keith’s piercing gaze has been able to discern his thoughts, “He just finished the second batch: the first one was without nuts because Pidge doesn’t like brownies with nuts in them---crazy, right?---and also because Coran had that weird thing where his tongue turned yellow and swelled up, even though Hunk says it probably wasn’t the space walnuts--- well the word he used was ‘inconclusive’ but anyways---just to be on the safe side, one batch is certified nut-free! But then, I was all like, Hunk, buddy, you know brownies with nuts are _ way  _ better. So he made a second batch just chock-full of delicious space walnuts. Because Hunk’s the best!” Lance’s tone is a little shriller than it should be. 

 

“And so,” Lance motions upwards with his hands, as though it’s obvious, “I was coming to get you because I know you like the kind with nuts! But Allura does too so they’ll probably go fast, so you should uh. Go get those.” 

 

Keith is looking at him with an expression of open bewilderment; a face that usually signifies that the person speaking has completely lost him. Lance adds on, unhelpfully, “If you want. I mean.” 

 

“Oh.” Keith seems satisfied with this. He directs one of his rare, tight lipped smiles towards Lance. “Thanks.” 

 

“No problem,” Lance says, before he turns and runs directly into the door frame. He makes an incredulous little noise and tells Keith, “You need to get this thing fixed, Keith, just jumped right out at me!” before rushing away. 

 

So. 

 

Everything is basically Keith’s fault. 

 

Especially now. The guy isn’t even here and still Lance is hung up on him. It’s so stupid, but there’s only one person who he wants to train with. There’s one person who Lance  _ knows _ could help him with his new bayard better than any other. 

 

Now the fantasy goes like this: Keith returns to the castle---it doesn’t matter why---and he (conveniently) walks in on Lance training with his sword-transformed bayard. Daydream-Keith is impressed but Daydream-Lance doesn’t get caught up in bragging. 

 

Instead, he would admit that he could use a little help with it. And Real-Keith would help him, sure, but Daydream-Keith has a touch that lingers and an easy smile to go with the back and forth of their training. Daydream-Keith is patient, content to spend the time together. And when they spar---neck-and-neck, sword against sword---- Daydream-Keith looks right at him. With that fire dancing in his eyes, and Lance’s name on his lips. 

 

But that’s not real. 

 

Keith is gone. He left, of his own volition. He’s not going to look at Lance, not like that.  

 

Lance measures the weight of the newly transformed bayard in his hand. He has to stop living in his head. He can’t wait for something that is never going to happen. He has to move forward. 

 

*

 

And so. That’s how Lance finds himself, not even three days after his talk with Allura, aboard an ‘enemy’ ship, casually strolling down the hall to spar with the guy who is arguably one of the most badass swordsmen in the entire galaxy. No big. 

 

At the very least he would have liked to meet aboard the Castle, yanno, home field advantage and all that, but Lotor preferred Lance come to him. So. That’s what he’s doing. Against all his better judgement. 

 

“Uh, knock knock,” he calls out, entering what seems to be the Galran equivalent of a gym. “Anybody home?” 

 

He catches the tail end of a conversation between Lotor and one of his aides: “---waste. Still, one isn’t often presented with such an opportunity for amus---” Lotor stops talking as Lance approaches, but Lance gets the distinct feeling that he was well aware that Lance could hear him. 

 

B lasé, Lotor waves his aide and the other members of his ever present entourage out of the room, so that he can direct his full attention to Lance.  “Ah. The esteemed Red Paladin of Voltron. How kind of you to finally join us. We’ll just pretend you arrived on time, shall we?”  

 

Loosening his shoulders, Lance physically shrugs off his irritation at Lotor’s tone. They haven’t even started yet.  _ Chill, Lancey Lance, think zen thoughts. _ “Yeah, sorry about that. Guess I got a little lost or something.”  

 

Lotor doesn’t deign to respond. He blinks and an expression crosses his face that could be construed as disdain, but his features settle back into impassivity far too quickly to know for certain. 

 

“So, uh, I know we’ve met so you probably already know, but you don’t have to be all ‘Paladin of Voltron’ or whatever. The name’s Lance.” Lance sticks out his hand between them. 

 

Lotor looks down at his hand and then up at his face. One frosty white brow knits ever-so-slightly. 

 

“Right. Handshakes, not a thing. Good to know.” Lance withdraws his hand in a wide arc to scratch at the back of his head. “Did you wanna just get started then?” 

 

“It would be a tragedy to keep a Paladin of Voltron away from his duties longer than necessary.” Lotor raises his hand and lights ringing the edge of the training floor illuminate. “Princess Allura was telling me about a charming occupation you all have. ‘Video games,’ I believe she called it?” 

 

Lance feels the color rise to his cheeks. “That’s--” 

 

Without further preamble, Lotor has his sword in his hand and shifts to a fighting stance. His actual sword. Like. The sword that has Zarkon’s blood figuratively (and at one point, literally) on it. 

 

Uh. 

 

Lance can blunt his bayard for training, but it doesn’t seem like the gleaming blade Lotor is holding between them has that functionality. He tries to sound casual, “U-usually seems like you would use a training sword. Since we’re, yanno, training.” 

 

“You are intent on losing, Lucas?” Lotor’s reply is immediate. 

 

“Lance. No, I’m not but--” 

 

“Then, the blade I use should be of little consequence.” As if talking to a child, Lotor coaxes, “At this point, I would generally recommend that you arm yourself as well. Perhaps you’ve forgotten your weapon?” 

 

Scoffing, Lance transforms the bayard in his hand. Transforms the bayard in his hand. Transforms---why is not working?? “What the quiznack, sorry, one sec--” He breaths in deep, letting his eyes fall shut, trying to ignore the expression on Lotor’s face---horrified yet wonderfully entertained, like a sadist watching a trainwreck--- and finally,  _ finally, _ gets the broadsword to manifest. “I--uh. Sometimes it takes a minute.” 

 

“A stunning display of tactical prowess, Landon, I’m sure. Now, shall we begin?”

 

“Lance. And yeah.” 

 

Lotor makes no move to attack. He stands, heads taller than Lance, watching him under half lidded eyes. His pupils are constricted; narrow vertical slits that tick almost imperceptibly to the side as Lance approaches. 

 

Lance’s sword feels awkward and heavy in his hands. He swings, wide and fast, but Lotor blocks it with a movement so fluid it almost seems lazy. 

 

Lotor flicks his wrist, transfers his sword to his other hand and back. He circles Lance. He hums an observation at the back of his throat, more purr than growl. 

 

“Sorry, didn’t catch that,” Lance comments. He strikes again, but Lotor easily parries the blow. 

 

“I don’t recall throwing anything.” 

 

Lance spits out a laugh. “Wow.” He turns keeping Lotor in front of him, then rushes him again. “Maybe cruddy humor is a Galra thing.” 

 

“No doubt as much as such slovenly technique is characteristic of humans.” Lotor remarks,  side-stepping his advance. 

 

Lance doesn’t allow himself to rise to the insult. He focuses on steadying his breath, already becoming ragged with exertion. When not speaking, Lotor settles into a quiet so still it’s unnerving. He remains on the defensive; whenever Lance tries to force a volley of blows, Lotor slips just out of range, expression blank. 

 

It continues like that: Lance keeps attacking but Lotor is impossible to pin down. Frustrated, Lance attempts to shake the hair off his forehead, but it’s become sticky with sweat. 

 

“Larry,” Lotor sighs, not even slightly out of breath. “I must say, I’m impressed. Your inability far exceeds my greatest expectation.” 

 

“Lance.” he corrects, telling himself it will be the last time. He meets Lotor’s gaze with conviction. 

 

Lotor raises his brows, a silent question. There’s mirth in his eyes but it looks wicked.  

 

The blow knocks Lance off his feet. 

 

An artful combination of hand-to-hand and the flat of his blade, Lotor moved faster than he could track: subtle, tight movements that send Lance stumbling backwards. 

 

As he falls, the point of Lotor’s blade grazes his neck, slicing a clean cut from under his ear to below his chin. His grip is loosened on his bayard---it goes clattering to the floor beside him, losing its form. Despite himself, Lance hisses at the pain and presses a palm against the wound. Just a little deeper, just a little more force, and it would have been his jugular. He swallows. His eyes are wide as he looks up at Lotor from the ground. 

 

“Oh Candice.” Lotor bows deeply, sheathing his sword. The ghost of a smile fades from his countenance as he raises his head. Light glints off the point of one long canine before it disappears behind his lips once more. “My most sincere apologies.” 

 

“S’its okay.” Lance wipes the blood from his jawline with the back of his hand. He reaches over to retrieve his bayard. He rises to his feet, raises his chin. “We can keep going.” 

 

Lotor already has his back turned to Lance as he makes to leave the room. “As much as I would love to continue, regrettably, I have another engagement.” He pauses. “Should Princess Allura wish that we repeat this remarkably  _ edifying _ experience, then, of course I will oblige.” He turns as he exits the room. “Until then. Do take care.” 

 

The cut is shallow, but that doesn’t stop the blood dripping down Lance’s neck from seeping into the collar of his armor. It begins to chafe as he makes his way back to the castle.  

 

*

 

He bandages up his cut, space gauze inexpertly taped with the aid of a mirror in the medbay. The doors slide shut behind him with a click and a puff of air as the hallway repressurizes. 

 

The team is gathered on the bridge when he finds them. He walks in to find that a call with Kolivan is just ending. He takes a spot at the edge of the room, leaning against one of the chairs, but still in full view of the large screen. 

 

Hunk immediately has a hand on his shoulder, eyes wide as saucers, as he motions to his neck.  _ What happened??, _ he mouths. 

 

Lance shrugs him off, whispering under his breath,  _ later, buddy, I’ll tell you later _ . Jaw clenched, he directs his attention to Kolivan. It’s been about two movements since the Blade has convened with Team Voltron. They used to update more frequently, but now they’re lucky to see Keith once or twice a month. 

 

Except, Keith isn’t on the screen. Kolivan finishes his summary, and begins to sign off. 

 

“Hold up,” Lance straightens up and steps forward, speaking up for the first time. “Where’s Keith?”

 

“He’s currently on a solo away mission,” Shiro turns towards Lance, standing between him and Kolivan’s image on the screen. They must have discussed it earlier in the call. His expression softens. “He’s alright; it’s normal Blade operation.” 

 

Something twists in Lance’s gut. It might be because he’s frustrated---so frustrated, at himself, at  _ everything _ \--- and he’s in pain and exhausted, but something just doesn’t seem  _ right _ . This doesn’t have anything to do with his imagination and all the things he wishes would happen between him and Keith. He clenches his hand. This is real. Keith has been on every call so far. “Are you sure? You’re sure he’s okay?” he asks Kolivan directly. 

 

Kolivan, ever serious, answers him in earnest. “There are check-in intervals assigned on every mission. Keith reported as usual for the initial ping back. He has since missed one check-in. If he misses three consecutive reports, the mission will be considered compromised and we will escalate the situation from there.” 

 

The  _ something _ twists deeper. “And that’s fine?” He turns to Shiro, making quotes in the air with his fingers. “ _ Normal Blade Operation _ ?” 

 

“Lance.” Allura tries. 

 

Lance shakes his head. This isn’t right. 

 

***


	3. Keith II: i am in an uproar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Although he was able to collect the data chip it was his mission to find, Keith has not yet been able to return to the Blade. While exploring, he thought he heard the voices of his former teammates. But he is wholly alone on this planet...and now trapped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter one really left our boy hangin B)
> 
>  
> 
> ps: thank you very much to the wonderful readers who have left comments, I appreciate you a lot. this fic hasn't been the easiest to write tbh, but I don't want to give up on it just yet.... so I really really thank you for those kind words!!

***

 

Months of rigorous training with the Blade have defined his every muscle, but Keith’s core still screams as he bends upwards, reaching towards his caught ankle. His fingers close around the cord, but he can’t get enough purchase to even begin to loosen it. 

 

He falls back abruptly, swinging in mid-air in a way that threatens to make him sick. One leg kicks at the air, the other ankle is already aching and rubbed raw. His head is pounding, he can feel every heartbeat in his ears. He’s on the verge of panicking. 

 

“I’m okay.” His voice sounds thin and strange in this muffled world. He takes a deep breath and repeats himself, willing it to be louder. Willing it to be true. 

 

He looks down at the ground beneath him (above him?). It’s not that far of a drop. And whomever (or whatever) set the trap has yet to appear. He can’t panic yet. With a grunt of effort, he curls upward to his ankle once more and manages to loosen the hold on his leg. His biceps tremble as the clings to the rope and slowly lowers himself down to drop to his feet. 

 

A hiss of pain escapes him as he lands. The foot that was caught, his right foot, won’t be able to fully bear weight for a while. He stoops down, picks up his blade. 

 

The sword that drew him to this spot has vanished. The place seems as deserted as it has been. Giving the area one last narrow-eyed scowl over his shoulder, he limps back towards his ship. 

 

He wonders if he imagined the voices he heard. 

 

*

 

It should be dark by now. It’s not. The shadows each building casts over the pristine walkway are no longer or shorter than when he first arrived, although his gut tells him he’s been planetside for several hours now. Each shuffling step forward seems agonizingly slow. 

 

The air does not move. It is neither cold, nor hot. Everything is still and quiet. 

 

His handheld communicator has a clock functionality, but it reads an error message rather than a time. He keeps checking it every so often, thumb pressing the smooth center key out of habit before he remembers that it’s offline. Keith thinks that the last time it was functional must have been during his previous ping back to the base. 

 

Which. The Blade has a strict policy regarding reporting intervals. If he’s missed more than three...Keith tightens his hand into a fist. They won’t come looking for him, he knows. The Blade doesn’t do rescue missions. And, he’s not stupid. This data in his pocket wasn’t important enough to deploy multiple agents to retrieve.  _ Mission over individual.  _ He’s disposable. He’ll almost certainly be abandoned. 

 

Keith closes his eyes, pauses for a moment. 

 

He’ll be fine. Apprehension has made his shoulders tense. He exerts the mental effort to square them off now, a posture of resolve. He’ll get out of this by himself. He’ll be fine because he has no other option. Light glinting off the spotless buildings on either side of him seems to wink at him, laughing in disagreement. He tries to increase his pace. 

 

He finds his ship just as he left it. The cloaking technology shimmers under his gloves as he punches in the code to unlock her. As soon as he enters the cockpit however, he knows that something is wrong. Rather than the typical start-up, the reserve power lights are on, casting a dim-red glow over the display. He settles down into the pilot’s seat, too large for his mostly-human frame, and leans over the controls. Minimal power. She’s not operational. He swears. 

 

He diverts all power to the scanning technology, in hopes of getting a message back to his base. His range barely extends into the upper atmosphere---it’s like the planet is drawing everything back into it, the way the sound refuses to echo in the street. Even his ship’s communicator has been muffled. He’s stranded and has no way of calling for help. 

 

The planet is as still and abandoned as death, the impenetrable darkness of space laying over it like a grave. 

 

On a whim, he searches for the Castle. Nothing comes up. They might be even farther away than the Blade, for all he knows. It doesn’t really matter, he tells himself. He hasn’t felt the thrum of Red---her purr in his chest---unexplainable and comforting and unlike anything else---since he first piloted the Black lion.

 

He tugs off his gloves, throws them at the screen in front of him in frustration before collapsing back into his seat. He runs a hand through his hair, pulls his knees close to his chest. He shudders out a breath. What now? 

 

He removes the little rock he picked up earlier from his pocket. He turns it over in his palm. It looks blue-green now, the particular blue-green of Earth, like the ocean on the cover of a travel magazine. A terrible analogy, he knows, but schmaltzy advertisements for Carnival cruises are the closest he ever got to an ocean on Earth. 

 

Last time he saw an image like that must have been in a far off gas station, kicking red desert sand off his boots while he waited in line to pay. Lance would probably die if Keith told him he had never seen the ocean for real. Keith scoffs a smile off his lips, picturing the magnitude of  Lance’s overblown reaction. He should’ve told him. 

 

Mechanically, he runs the emergency lock-down procedure on his ship. Everything related to the Blade will be encrypted in triplicate, set to be wiped if security is breached. He’s had to enter in the settings a thousand times in drills, but never on an actual mission. The screens go black. 

 

He picks up his gloves. He’ll tell him. 

 

He packs up all the rations he brought, the minimal supplies each ship is stocked for in the event of an emergency. 

 

He’ll get himself off this planet. He’ll complete the mission successfully. And he’ll tell him. 

 

He gives the rock a squeeze before tucking it back into his pocket---the one at his collar, so that it settles beneath the chest plate of his armor, just above his heart. 

 

*

 

Keith sets off in the opposite direction from which he came. He has a vague plan in mind, as he makes his way on foot across a sloping suspension bridge that cuts the city’s impressive skyline in half. The Galra, once occupying a planet, usually establish a depot where they can house a commanding officer should things go south. It wouldn’t be ostentatious, and it would be separate from the central command where the data chip was located. The background information he reviewed prior to the mission hypothesized where this planet’s depot might be. It was just a guess, but it’s all he has right now. 

 

If there’s a single space-ready vessel on this planet, it’ll be there. He just needs to find... 

 

He stops. An audible gasp escapes his throat when he sees it. Her. 

 

She is  _ beautiful. _ A candy-apple red that stands out against the spotless, glassy surfaces of the city and the off-white street she just barely hovers above. 

 

“Now that’s a car,” Keith murmurs in appreciation, getting closer. She’s long, lean lines and a paint job so clean, she looks wet. Chrome detailing over the slim hover jets on either edge. Tinted windows encase the sides, which lift out to reveal an all black interior.

 

A inner voice (that sounds suspiciously like Lance) asks, “ _ If you’re gonna be stranded, why not be stranded in style? _ ” Keith can’t disagree. 

 

He slides in. He might be holding his breath because he releases it in a nervous giggle. This vehicle is gorgeous. No other words for it. 

 

Keith uses the edge of his blade to carefully pop open a compartment beneath the control panel. It’s been awhile since he’s had to….

 

A smooth alien voice greets him as a transparent silver screen unfolds into life. “Yesssss,” he sighs, fingers wiggling over the screen. It takes a bit of effort but he repeats the happy sigh as he successfully switches her to manual. 

 

She handles like a vision, gliding over the complex roadways at a pace that satisfies even Keith. He darts in and out of the stationary traffic. The highway loops upwards, weaving an intricate pattern around the glossy buildings. 

 

He speeds through the city, gradually making his way towards a cathedral-like building at its centermost, highest point, the very crest of the city. The arches spanning out from here are massive, as though it alone supports the now vacant metropolis. 

 

He still has seen no other signs of life than his own. 

 

It has still not gotten dark. 

 

If there’s a time measuring device in the car he doesn’t understand it. He has a suspicion that it would not be accurate even if he did. But his body tells him it’s been hours and hours since he landed. And much, much longer since he left his bunk. He needs rest. He parks the car in a secluded area, makes sure the doors are locked (against what?) before he adjusts the seats to fold out. 

 

He unclips his blade from his belt so that he can keep it ready at his side. The position is familiar---how he fell asleep every night in the desert. During that time, he dreamed of Blue: an ancient supplication drawing him out of sleep to send him further and further out into the desert. Exhausted, like he was often was then, he submits willingly to sleep. 

 

*

 

He dreams now of the ocean. 

 

He’s never been, but a magazine covers and movies and stories of other kids’ vacations supply the details. The steady roar of the waves and the wind. The sun beating down hot on his bare shoulders. Feet sinking into soft sand. 

 

And he dreams of Lance, too. He’s shouting above the noise of the water, his eyes crinkling at private jokes, corners of his mouth hiking up further when Keith shakes his head. He loops an arm around Keith’s waist----something he’s never done in real life, despite how familiar it feels---and supplements his words with grand gestures. One hand slices the air in front of them as Lance carries on, head bent towards Keith, his other hand drumming out his words through heavy fingertips on Keith’s hip. 

 

The dream goes nowhere, or if it does, the details are lost as soon as Keith wakes---still very much alone. He slings an arm over his eyes, blocking out this planet’s feeble, unchanging light. 

 

It takes him a moment to place his surroundings. He’s not in a bunk on any of the Blade flagships. He’s not at the Castle. He’s not in the little one room cabin he made a home in the desert. He’s alone. 

 

It’s not the first time he’s dreamt of Lance. 

 

It’s been awhile since it happened---he’s made an effort against it. He’s tried, unsuccessfully for the most part, to put his time as a paladin of Voltron in his past.

 

But when he was there, any interaction could become an inspiration. He wanted to get closer, but he never seemed to be able to say or do the right thing that would close the gap between them. Lance was maddeningly easy to fall for, but, most of the time, impossible to connect with. 

 

That frustration manifested in dreams. Sometimes simple things: conversations, happy laughs, casual touches...

 

Sometimes far more physical: more graphic than any fantasy he’d allow himself in real life. The weight of Lance. The smell. The way his fingers would precede his ever-enthusiastic mouth in working over Keith’s skin. 

 

(He’d gotten off to it. He’d woken up, hot and hard, and chasing the image of Lance between his legs. At the thought of Lance’s mouth on him, all it took was a few strokes and he was coming, biting down on the knuckles of his opposite hand to prevent himself from groaning Lance’s name in the darkness of his room.)

 

The first time that happened, afterwards, he felt awkward. So awkward. He showered before breakfast that morning, even though he always showered at night. He shuffled down to the kitchen, hair still damp and thoughts resolutely directed to the day’s events rather than who he was about to see. 

 

Lance ruined that, obviously:

 

“Mornin’ Keith,” he says, rolling on back and forth on his feet, with enough energy to slosh the Altean equivalent of orange juice out of his cup. “Guess what?” 

 

Keith grunts something non-committal in reply, surreptitiously moving his marred knuckles under the table, avoiding eye contact as he settles down at the table with his morning cereal. 

 

“Lance, not everyone wakes up with a kajillion tera elecvolts worth of energy, you know. Chill.” Pidge doesn’t even look up from her laptop, as she shovels toast into her mouth and admonishes Lance at the same time. 

 

“Be rad if they did though,” Hunk chuckles, giving her a friendly elbow. She grins. 

 

Lance waves them off, like, _ these nerds _ , before repeating himself. “Keith, guess what!” 

 

“I--what, Lance?” 

 

“You were in my dream last night.” 

 

Keith almost chokes on his alien Frosted Mini Wheats. 

 

“Yeah, it was so weird.” 

 

Keith tightens the grip on his spoon. He tries to steady his tone, despite how the tips of his ears and the back of his neck are absolutely burning. “Really.” 

 

“Okay, so, back home--” 

 

“Oh! I had a weird home dream last night too!” 

 

“Hunk. Please. Right now it’s my turn. We’ll listen to your dream next.” 

 

“Oh joy.” Pidge’s fingers pause on the keys. “Sounds like I’m in for a riveting morning.” 

 

Lance takes the lackluster response in stride. “So, I was back home, right? And my niece was there, I’m probably babysitting, like always---her name is Sophia but everybody calls her Lenni. Long story---Anyways. So I’m with Lenni and we’re playing cards, but like, it was those weird non-card cards we played on Gargej-8. Remember those? And Lenni is only like seven, but man if she wasn’t smoking me at this alien poker. And then.” He looks directly at Keith. “We heard the ice cream truck.” 

 

Lance has set down his OJ on the counter so he can better use his hands as he paces around and gets more into the story. Keith watches the way his fingers splay in the air as he continues: 

 

“We heard the ice cream truck, you know---” Lance hums a surprisingly accurate rendition of the tinny song, “---and Lenni _ freaks out _ . She  _ zooms _ out of the house! And. I follow her, of course. And, guess who was driving the ice cream truck?!” 

 

He pauses for effect. “Keith. Keith was driving the ice cream truck!” 

 

Pidge scrunches her nose. “And that’s the whole dream?” 

 

“Uh, no.” Lance rolls his eyes. “Obviously we have to get ice cream. So we walk up to the window and Keith, ohmigod dude, you were wearing the  _ cutest _ pink and white hat! It was striped, like old-time-y or something, and you had a matching pink apron on. You looked  _ so _ mad.” Lance grins at him, smile wonky as he leans across the table. “Yeah, just like that!” 

 

Keith frowns, mouthing the words “pink” and “cute” under his breath in disbelief, but Lance ignores him: 

 

“Your customer service was  _ not _ good, man. You were all,” Lance flattens down his hair with his hand and fake-deepens his voice, “‘Are you gonna buy anything or what?’ and I was just like, excuse me? But then we, um, talked for a little bit and it was cool.” Lance laughs, scratches the side of his nose, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah, so that was pretty much it, I guess. Wild, huh?” 

 

“Wild.” Keith agrees. He goes back to his cereal. 

 

“ _ Wild _ , he says,” Lance echoes, mocking. 

 

“I was agreeing with you!” 

 

“Well if your dreams are so much better, then what did you dream last night?” Lance raises an eyebrow. 

 

For the second time that morning, Keith almost chokes on his cereal. It’s too early for this level of torture. 

 

“Hey! It’s my turn next!” Hunk interrupts. Keith silently thanks all of space and time for Hunk. 

 

By the time Hunk has finished his story---a meandering, complex anecdote that Keith wouldn’t be able to follow even if he wasn’t having an internal crisis---Lance has forgotten about Keith entirely, it would seem. Which works for Keith. He manages to slip out of the kitchen without taking part in any additional breakfast conversation. 

 

*

 

Awake and alone in his car on L-ang01e5s, Keith has to set dreams and memories and memories of dreams aside. He can’t afford any distraction. 

 

His mission now is to find a working spacecraft to get off of this planet.  _ Mission over individual _ . (.... _ Safety over emotions _ ). 

 

This mission. 

 

Becomes very bleak, very fast. 

 

The depot Keith had optimistically told himself he would find is not where the notes surmised. Keith clenches his jaw at the setback, tells himself he will comb through the city inch-by-inch if that’s what it takes. 

 

Although he checks it periodically, his communicator, the handheld, is still offline. The planet is unchanging---never dark, never bright, never loud, never...anything. 

 

On the third day (which Keith measures simply by the intervals between the times he must sink into an exhausted sleep, because there is nothing else to go by), Keith searches a residence. It feels strange to be in a civilian home after so long. There’s so much evidence of a happy life….just no one there to live it. It’s disturbing. He walks into a narrow, sloping chamber, sink like indents in the wall---a bathroom. Water is still running from the tap. Like someone vanished just as they were washing their hands or brushing their teeth or whatever else an alien might do. Keith turns the faucet off, before stumbling out of the apartment. He retches on the spotless sidewalk outside. 

 

When Keith was living on his own in the desert, he had a routine. On this aimless mission, he can’t seem to find any semblance of habit. He’s starting to feel very lost. 

 

*

 

If humans are creatures of habit, it’s one thing that they have in common with the Galra. This is something Keith learned quickly after joining the Blade. To his amusement, Kolivan could wear holes in the proverbial carpet of the Blade of Marmora headquarters with his repetition of his actions. 

 

Kolivan rises early----precisely 0500 ship time. Regardless of the day’s agenda, he makes himself a cup of  _ ‘tsaa, _ ’ a bitter drink that Keith finds just barely tolerable, but to which the Galra have a healthy addiction. (“Mmmm,” Sridi breathed over his own cup when Keith asked him about it. “Tsaa works magic. No one on this ship is fool enough to cross Kolivan before he’s had his morning cup.”) 

 

After his tsaa, (Kolivan brews his with a slice of fruit on the bottom; a habit which all of his comrades are well aware and careful not to omit if they make him a cup), Kolivan can be found doing a series of stretches. Kolivan ranges from harsh to outright intimidating, but Keith would be lying if he said he didn’t almost spit out his tsaa the first time he walked in on Kolivan in the Galran equivalent of the downward dog pose. 

 

If someone would have told the Keith of five years ago that he would regularly do space yoga with a group of alien renegades, well. He wouldn’t have had the words to disagree, but they would definitely have been given a raised eyebrow and a wide berth from then on. But he finds that joining Kolivan in his morning routine is oddly calming. He surprises himself with his flexibility, but much more than that, it calms and focuses him for the day ahead. 

 

He turns to it now because he’s at his wits end. If he does it when he first wakes up, it feels like a morning routine. It helps. 

 

His gloves come off first; he lays them at the edge of the soft, gray grass of the park he’s found. On top of them, he places his handheld. He takes out the stone, which has gone clear as glass, save for blue-green streaks that tunnels through it like veins. Before setting it down, he runs a thumb over it’s surface, almost superstitious. He unhooks the collar of his suit and peels his arms out, collapsing the chest piece, so that he’s naked from the waist up. 

 

He stretches his arms upward, rolls his shoulders back, beginning the long version of Kolivan’s routine. He always felt awkward joining in with the other members of the Blade, but now he’s glad he took the time to train with them in this way too. Already he feels better. 

 

He wonders why he’s like this. Only really appreciating something once it’s gone. Always feeling like he’s on the edge of everything, looking in. Not meaning to be a “loner,” but feeling very alone. 

 

He remembers a warm smile, easy and inviting, and wonders how Lance always seemed to manage it. He remembers the striking intelligence of Hunk and Pidge. Shiro’s boundless calm. With a lengthy exhale, he doubles over, stretching to meet the floor. He wonders how his old team will hear of his disappearance. What they will say. If they hear of it at all. 

 

He inhales, straightening up. He widens his stance, turns his head---

 

He almost falls over----

 

A mop of sandy auburn hair is visible on a screen hovering above his handheld. 

 

The breath is knocked out of him. 

 

“Pidge!” he dives towards the device, hands shaking as he picks it up. “Pidge! It’s me, Keith! Can you hear me?” 

 

The screen wobbles and Keith cries out, but it’s just because Lance is wrestling the device away from Pidge. He peers down into the screen, at a very unflattering angle. He gets so close that all Keith can see are his nostrils. It might be the most wonderful sight that Keith has ever seen.  

 

“Lance!” he says, choking on the name, “Can you hear me? It’s Keith!” Keith swears under his breath. “Move your big head out of the way,” 

 

Lance does back further away from the communicator, and Keith can see his mouth move but there’s still no sound. The screen dips again, a blur of color, and Hunk is there. He rolls his eyes and motions to something out of view and suddenly, 

 

“--ance I swear, I’m gonna---” 

 

“Pidge!!” Keith shouts. “Can you hear me!” 

 

“Hey Keith,” Pidge adjusts the screen so she’s fully in frame. “We heard from Kolivan that you--” 

 

Lance snatches the device from Pidge again. “Keith. Gotta question for ya.” He poses with his index finger and thumb in a “V” over his chin, peering into the screen with smarmy half-lidded eyes. “Is your refrigerator running?” 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put keith in this creepy sci fi, liminal space, abandoned world and what does he do? Hot wire the most bougie hover car he can find. Smh


	4. Lance II: this is a convergence, this is a convergence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance is slowly but surely becoming more comfortable with his new bayard, but after his dismal training session with Lotor, it just seems like it’s not enough. His imagination is running wild, Shiro’s acting weird, and Keith wasn’t present in the latest video conference with the Blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Oprah voice) you get some angst! And you get some angst! Everybody gets some angst!!!

 

***

 

Lance tosses the subsidencing collection unit above his head. It’s about the size and shape of a baseball, but much lighter. It’s only a matter of time before he misses and it smacks him in the face; but for now, it’s satisfying to watch it rise up nearly to Hunk’s ceiling, satisfying the way it drops back cleanly into his hands, just for a second, before he tosses it back up. 

 

He’s lying in Hunk’s bed, killing time between the debriefing following the call from Kolivan, and helping Coran prepare the evening meal. Hunk is puttering around his desk, not really working on anything. Sometimes he moves bits and pieces around, plays at taking things apart---it helps him relax. He has a pencil behind his ear which he’ll occasionally take out and use to write something down in his tiny, exacting script. 

 

Lance draws up his knees, crosses one leg so that one ankle is resting on his knee. He pokes the button on the collection unit and it pops out to its full size, larger than a beach ball. He frowns when he realizes he doesn’t know how to collapse it again. 

 

“Shiro is mad at me.” He states, breaking the relative silence. He attempts to toss the beach ball sized unit up into the air but it’s not as satisfying. He sprawls back out. 

 

Hunk makes a sound that indicates he heard, but doesn’t quite agree. When Lance doesn’t say anything else, he finishes the note he was making, then prompts: “And you think that, why?” 

 

The unit drops back into his hands. Lance shrugs,  _ dunno _ , his fingertips digging into its cushy sides. He hugs it to his chest. “I’m mad at him too.” 

 

Hunk turns in his chair, rests one elbow on the desk behind him. His eyes flick from the white strip of gauze on Lance’s neck before he leans far enough back to survey the ceiling. He releases a breath of air in a little puff before bringing his gaze down to Lance’s face. “This is some Bad Mojo, man.” 

 

Lance nods. He knew Hunk would understand. He flips over to his side, one cheek resting on his palm. The position hurts---the cut on his neck burns, feels like it might split and start bleeding again---so he sits up. “What should I do?” 

 

“I mean, you gotta talk to him.” 

 

“I’m not wrong.” Lance shakes his head. “I don’t know what he’s thinking, this stuff with Lotor---it’s bananas!!” He rises to his feet, starts talking with his hands as he paces Hunk’s room. “You didn’t see his face today. Lotor’s. Dude would have had  _ zero _ problems with slicing me wide open!” Lance draws a line violently across his neck with his pointer finger. 

 

Hunk winces. “Yeah. Sending you over there by yourself: not Allura or Shiro’s most brilliant idea. From now on, no more training alone with Lotor...full buddy system implementation.” 

 

Well. That’s a decent start, but it doesn’t quell the super not-good feeling that is starting to develop about their leaders overall. Shiro, specifically. “But that’s not it, Hunk.” Lance purses his lips. “The call today. Keith---” 

 

“Keith is fine.” Hunk raises his eyebrows. “You know the Marmora dudes are not gonna let anything happen to him. I trust Kolivan.” 

 

“I trust Kolivan, but.” Lance scuffs his socks against the floor, pushes his hands in his pockets. “Don’t you think it’s weird that Shiro was so unconcerned? Him and Keith are like, the tightest. They used to be, anyways.” He sits back down on the bed and falls back dramatically. “I have a mega bad feeling about this.” It’s not just how he acted after the call. Shiro has changed. Ever since he came back after his disappearance following the fight with Zarkon....

 

When he sits back up, Hunk is facing his desk again. He has his mouth resting on his fist, pensive. “He has been weird lately.” He scratches his head. “But. He’s been through some stuff, Lance. We can’t really--” 

 

“Yeah, I know.” Lance still can’t shake the feeling in his gut. Something is out of place. “Maybe I  _ am _ wrong? I hope I’m wrong,” he tells Hunk. 

 

*

 

Lance is not wrong. 

 

Kolivan calls again after dinner. Two calls in one day is unheard of, and Lance’s stomach drops well before Kolivan opens his mouth. He would say that even Kolivan’s expression gives away the fact that he has bad news but, well, Kolivan’s face kinda always looks like that. 

 

Keith is missing. 

 

“Super Secret Space Cult Guys Lose Entire Paladin, more on page four,” Lance declares, his hands marking the air like he’s reading off a headline. His voice is shrill. 

 

“Not helpful, Lance.” Pidge warns him. She’s dealt with the loss a brother, recovering him only by years of dedication---sheer force of will. Her father has returned to Earth recently. The news that Keith is now missing hits her hard, Lance can see it. She gives him a look and her mouth wobbles before she turns away. 

 

“What are the facts?” Shiro asks, ignoring their squabble. His voice is clear and calm. It sounds like Shiro should sound. 

 

Lance is no longer convinced. 

 

The facts go like this: 

 

Keith was assigned to a solo extraction mission. After leaving the Blade flagship on which he was stationed, he arrived safely at his destination, and sent the Blade his preliminary report. 

 

All good. 

 

But then, he missed the two subsequent check-ins, which were supposed to take place six and twelve varga after the initial one. 

 

At that point, it was also noted that the communication device in Keith’s suit as well as his handheld are no longer signalling. None of Kolivan’s calls go through. Keith’s ship is no longer visible on scans. He’s, effectively, disappeared. 

 

“Was he captured?” Allura’s question delicately sidesteps the much more grim thought that is at the forefront of everyone’s minds. 

 

Kolivan’s tone is maddeningly level as well. “We do not believe that to be the case. Prior to his disappearance, this was classified as a low-risk mission. Keith has proven himself to be exceedingly capable.”

 

“Capable or no, people don’t just, like, disappear.” Hunk points out. And since no one has been seen coming or going from the seemingly vacant planet, something else must have happened. He and Pidge trade theories that quickly begin to go over Lance’s head. Kolivan entertains the ideas, but none of them are deemed overly plausible. 

 

Lance feels like everyone is missing the obvious. “Uh, hello??? Clearly we just need to swing by this mystery planet?” He spreads his hands and looks at them, incredulous. “You know, honk the horn of our space minivan, c’mon you mullet-y hotshot, mission’s over, time for dinner!” 

 

It’s not that easy, apparently. This planet is deep within the Empire’s territory. As much as the Blade would like to send out a team now, their resources are stretched thin. Kolivan tells them that he won’t be able to organize an appropriately equipped search-and-rescue party for about ten days. 

 

_ Search-and-rescue. _ The idea that any of their own, that Keith, needs  _ rescuing _ sends a chill down Lance’s spine. 

 

“Oh yeah, that sounds great! Good plan guys!” Lance waves his arms. “In fact, why don’t we just wait like a month or so,  _ really _ stew it over? I hear there’s some bangin’ cryopods around here, we could take a nice cold nap for a couple hundred years and  _ then _ go check on our teammate who  _ may or may not be facing imminent death _ .” 

“Lance.” Shiro is unimpressed. “Ultimately, Keith is a member of the Blade now. We’ll defer to Kolivan---”

 

Lance opens his mouth to argue, but Pidge cuts them both off. “ _ We _ have the resources. I left by myself to follow through on my search for Matt.” 

 

Hunk nods. “I could probably---”  

 

“Team.” Shiro leans over one of the terminals on the bridge and flicks open the schedule for the next week. Voltron’s various appearances, meetings, etc hang heavy and absolute on the pink-tinged digital screen. Shiro straightens up and looks at each one of them in turn. “We have an obligation to the  _ coalition _ . These are our allies. The team has worked hard to secure these alliances and we can’t just abandon them.” 

 

“We can’t just abandon Keith either!” Lance shouts. Fuming, he takes a step towards Shiro, hands clenched at his sides. He can’t believe he has to say this. And to  _ Shiro _ , of all people. This makes no sense. 

 

“No one is abandoning Keith. I respected Keith’s decision to leave. And I respect the Blade’s autonomy as an organization. This isn’t our place.” Shiro narrows his eyes. “And it isn’t your call.” 

 

Lance can feel his fingernails cutting into his palms, he’s so tense. Unbelievable. He looks over to see Hunk twisting his hands. Pidge is biting her lip, staring down at her computer screen, resolutely avoiding his glance. He turns back towards Shiro---

 

Coran lets out an appreciative whistle. “Nothing like a bit of mutiny to really get the blood pumping! Why I can feel my hearts pounding like a Pegulian nevmor!” 

 

Lance loves Coran, but that doesn’t stop him from shooting the man his most withering look, because,  _ really _ ? 

 

Totally unfazed, Coran steps between Lance and Shiro and places a hand on each of their backs. “I have a proposition, lads: we’ll sleep on it. Fifty winks will do wonders for one’s constitution in general, and will bring things into focus here as well, no doubt.” He gives them both a hearty slap on the back, and both of them stumble forward. 

 

Allura clears her throat with the most regal little cough this side of Talwar Six. “Coran is right.” Taking back the floor, she turns to face Kolivan on screen. “Should anything change, please contact us at once. Otherwise, I will hail you again in the morning, and we will discuss further action at that time.” 

 

Lance rubs at the spot between his shoulders. Coran might be hella old, but he definitely should not be crossed. He turns to face Shiro, maybe to try to smooth things over, but Shiro is already walking off the bridge, head held high, back rigid. Lance watches his perfect posture turn the corner. He slumps. 

*

 

It’s late but Lance can’t bring himself to sleep. 

 

He can’t stop thinking. His mind is caught in a tailspin: the emotional upheaval from his fight with Shiro. The  _ look _ Allura gave him as she took back the floor, daring him to disagree. A dry mouthed, sick feeling from imagining the worst happening to Keith. He’s reeling. The space-age microfoam bed offers him zero peace of mind. By now they’ve been in space upwards of a year---who can keep an exact count of days with all the wormhole jumping and time changes and sleepless nights?--- but, the four walls surrounding him have never felt less like home. 

 

He shuffles into blue slippers and his blue robe and sets off towards the hangar of the red lion. (Man, when did everything get so mixed up?)  

 

Still. It’s Red who he finds himself craving now. 

 

Red is a call to action, urging him to follow his instincts, to  _ do something _ . She’s a wry, self-satisfied humor and ‘asking for forgiveness rather than permission.’ She’s determination and the art of believing in yourself---something that’s never been his strong suit. She welcomes him in, fans the smoldering troubles of his heart into a quiet flame. It’s a different kind of comfort than the steady calm of Blue, but in this moment, it’s exactly what he needs. 

 

“Red,” he sighs, leaning back from her gently glowing controls, “We have to find him.” 

 

He closes his eyes. Tries to clear his mind. 

 

...

 

The smell of the beach comes first---the salty, crisp ocean air, ever so slightly adulterated with the wafting fried food smell of the boardwalk, and the chemical coconut of every sunscreen cream he’s ever used. He can feel the cool spray of the waves on one side, offering relief from the bright-hot Cuban sun. And on his other side, is Keith. 

 

They’re walking side-by-side and Lance feels light. He’s smiling, telling Keith not to worry because if he is lost, he won’t be lost for long, not really. Keith doesn’t seem to hear him, so Lance gets more insistent, waves one hand--- _ helloooo, earth to Keith, can you hear me _ \---but Keith just shakes his head. He draws Keith closer, loving the warmth of Keith’s skin under his hand, even in the midday heat. Keith responds in kind, holding onto Lance like now that he has him, he’ll never let Lance go. 

 

The image fades out of focus until once again Lance is sitting in Red’s darkened cockpit. He licks his lips, half expecting to taste the sea air he was experiencing so vividly just a moment before. 

 

Nope. Just the same lips, slightly chapped from recycled, carbon clean Altean air. 

 

“What in the sweet quiznack was  _ that _ ?” Lance shifts in his seat, tapping at the armrest of the pilot’s seat. “Red, what the heck?!” 

 

He tries to call the vision back, one eyebrow ticking up, eyes squeezed shut, mouth pulled in concentration. Nothing. 

 

“Hey Red.” Lance puts his hands on his hips. “You’re not holding out on me are you? Do you still have some kind of radar-love connection with Keith? Can I like, mind meld with him right now and talk to him or something?” 

 

_ No _ , she tells him,  _ not like that _ . 

 

Hmrph. Lance slouches deep in his seat. That was more than his normal imagination. And it was almost...too sweet. Keith is out there, but Lance has a feeling that he’s not just strolling around a beach somewhere, carefree. 

 

He tilts his head back, the flame in his chest burning ever brighter, blue-hot. He has to do something. 

 

*

 

He’s almost back to his bedroom, walking with his head down, weighted from heavy thoughts, when he hears it: 

 

The scream is gut-wrenching, visceral. A mangled cry that echoes through the twisting hallways of the castle-ship, forcing its way into the corners, assaulting the curve of the-not-exactly-glass that separates them from deep space. 

 

It’s Shiro’s voice. Lance hears Shiro scream and he runs. 

 

His body moves without thinking. It’s pure instincts that push him scrabbling through the doorway, falling into Shiro’s room sideways, before the door is completely open. He’s breathless and somehow, irrationally terrified---the sound is still echoing in his ears, the hair on the back of his neck is standing up. 

 

“Shiro?” he asks. He’s not sure what he expects to find. Soft blue light from the hallway casts a long rectangle into the otherwise darkened room. 

 

Shiro shudders out a gasp, which is not quite an answer. And it’s definitely not permission to come in. Whelp. He’s this far. Lance swallows, it’s audible, but not as loud as Shiro’s short huffs; he’s breathing like he’s trying to calm a racing heart. 

 

“Hey, it’s Lance. Uh. I heard---Y-you okay?” Lance approaches slowly, hands spread wide because he doesn’t want to startle. 

 

Shiro is sitting up in bed. One leg is halfway to the floor, sticking out from under the blanket, which is tangled in a heap around the other. He has his human hand covering his eyes. He groans through his labored breaths and leans forward. 

 

Lance sinks to his side. He sits on the edge of the bed and places an uncertain hand on his shoulder. “Shiro.”

 

Shiro’s gaze slowly rises from behind his hand. He blinks Lance into focus. “Lance.” His voice is raw. Hoarse. 

 

“You--I think you had a nightmare, man. I, uh, heard you. You okay?” 

 

“Oh.” Shiro looks down at his lap. 

 

It’s so unlike any reaction or emotion he’s ever seen from Shiro that it jars Lance almost more than the scream.  

 

(Lance and Shiro are not close. It’s hard to be close with someone who, for years, Lance regarded as nothing less than a hero. 

 

The glossy booklet that accompanied Lance’s Garrison application had a full two-page spread detailing the extraordinary academic career that led to Shiro being selected for the Kerberos mission. Lance pinned the page with Shiro’s picture to a bulletin board above his desk. For two years, the picture of Shiro looked over him----while Lance struggled through writing college essays, while he gritted his teeth studying for finals, dreamed of going to the stars. 

  
  
  


The real Shiro had proven to be no less impressive--- in fact, the photo barely did justice to his chiseled jaw, and his kind eyes don’t need photoshop or a semi-matte finish. As teammates, Lance has relied on Shiro’s level head and seemingly unwavering calm. A true leader. 

 

Or so Lance had always thought. Recently, Shiro has started to feel less like a leader of a team and more like someone in charge who wants to be followed. Just when Lance felt like he was maybe approaching equal footing with someone as amazing as Shirogane Takashi, everything seems to have been flipped. It seems like not once since Keith left has Shiro listened to Lance. He’s only drifted further away.)

 

But now. Here. Shiro looks young. His shoulders are hunched. He looks tired and lost and his skin is clammy under Lance’s hand. 

 

Lance wonders if Keith--- Keith who’s ineloquent speech usually ranges from blunt to tongue-tied, but sometimes, once in a very rare while, opens his mouth and utters a kind of quiet poetry out of nowhere---if he would know what to say now. Lance thinks that he would. 

 

“Shiro. Talk to me man, it’s okay.” 

 

Shiro inhales, his eyes closed, gathering himself. When he responds, it sounds more like him, but, there’s still an uncharacteristic uncertainty. “I mentioned earlier…I’ve been feeling. Not myself.” 

 

Lance nods. He remembers. “‘Lack of oxygen’, not so much, huh?”  

 

Jaw tight, Shiro shakes his head. “It’s getting worse.” He says it quietly. “I’ve been having...nightmares. I’m aboard a Galran ship. But it’s not the prison ship that I was on before.” He looks at Lance. “These are not memories.” 

 

His gaze slides away. He looks straight ahead. “The druids address me. They follow my command. And here,” he places his human hand over his chest, “feels hollow.” He swallows, the hand drops down to his side. “Just before I wake up, I can feel _ it _ , Lance. Something dark is waiting at the edges of my mind.” 

 

Lance lets out a breath. This is a lot. His thoughts are running in a million different directions. None of them are great. He has questions, wants specifics. He opens his mouth to ask, but Shiro’s expression stops him. 

 

Shiro mouth is pulled into a deep frown. His eyes are squeezed shut. He’s fighting back tears. 

 

Regardless of everything else that Shiro is---a Garrison golden boy, a natural leader, his hero who has maybe been not so heroic lately---Shiro is also his friend and something is wrong. Lance responds in the only way he can. “We’ll figure this out, Shiro. We’ll be okay.”  _ You’re not alone. _

 

“Lance. I have--a request.” 

 

Lance nods too readily, taken aback. “Whatever I can do.”  

 

“You’re going to go find Keith. I could see it on your face earlier.” 

 

It’s not a question. It’s not a question, so Lance doesn’t say anything in response. His heart seems to stutter in his chest. He waits for Shiro to continue. 

 

“Don’t let me stop you, please. Just. Don’t--Don’t tell me. Follow your instincts, but don’t ask me for permission.”

 

“Wait, you want me to--” 

 

Shiro holds up his hand. “I trust you.” He laughs, cold and short and self-deprecating. “Right now, I trust you a lot more than I trust myself.” 

 

There’s a finality to it. 

 

When he leaves, Shiro is sitting hunched on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. His head is hanging down, bowed deeper than his shoulder blades. Lance thinks that he probably won’t able to fall back asleep. 

 

*

 

It’s technically a few hours until Castle time says that it’s morning. Whatever. Lance’s heart is flying and he feels like there’s no time to waste. 

 

Lance creeps through the halls towards Hunk’s room. Hunk’s probably definitely asleep, but he still does their secret knock (a couple of beats from the Star Trek opening because they’re both turbo nerds and it seemed hilarious at the Garrison) to let him know it’s Lance before he slips in. 

 

“Dude. Wake up. Emergency paladin meeting,” Lance hisses into his face, pulling the blanket off of him. 

 

Hunk groans, but he’s long since developed a Lance-sized tolerance for annoyance. “Emergency meeting like we’re all about to die, or emergency meeting like you just saw someone cute and need to talk about it?” he mumbles, eyes still mostly closed. 

 

“Neither. Both. Kinda.” Lance tugs him upright. “C’mon, we have to get Pidge.” 

 

Pidge is not as easy to wake, partly because her room is so messy, it’s basically booby trapped, and also because she is a tiny being made almost entirely of spite. She slumps against Hunk and, with half lidded eyes, watches Lance pace the small bit of her floor that’s free of debris. 

 

“This better be good, Lance.” 

 

“It is. Well, actually--- it’s not good at all. Just give me a minute.” Lance puts one hand out, the other pinching the bridge of his nose to help him gather his thoughts. There’s no good way to say this. “Shiro is mind-swished.” 

 

Pidge pats Hunk on the shoulder, like,  _ I’ll let you deal with this one _ , and moves to lay back down in her bed. 

 

“Lance,” Hunk starts. 

 

“No. Really.” Lance tries to explain as best he can. “That fight we had today was bogus. Do you really think that Shiro, the real Shiro, wouldn’t be rushing out to find Keith? There’s no way! The real Shiro would be the first to find any of us, if we needed him!” 

 

Pidge sits back up, nodding slightly. “Remember how he took Matt’s place when they were captured?” She says it softly, almost to herself. 

 

Lance beams. “Exactly! Shiro would always be there for us, no matter what. But  _ not right now _ , because, my dudes,  _ Shiro is mind-swished. _ And not by some weird sea creature, like we were Hunk---this is way worse!!! Okay!” 

 

Lance tells them about the conversation he just had with Shiro. The culmination of a million little, and not so little things, that have been getting under his skin and making him feel like something is not quite right. Things that they’ve noticed too, of course. Shiro doesn’t listen like he did. He face is too tight, his movements too calculated, his tone too calm. 

 

And Lance tells them about the terrible feeling that he has about Keith being gone right now. The emotional vision in Red. (He leaves out the details---the feeling of Keith’s skin, soft and warm, how kissable his lips look when rounded into an easy smile, the glint of his dark hair in the sun, how his lashes are long enough to tremble in the sea breeze…) 

 

Lance finishes, pleading. “And not only am I worried about Keith, but guys, I think that whatever this is that’s going on with Shiro, we’re going to need Keith to get him out of it.” 

 

Hunk lets out a big sigh like he’s been holding his breath. “Oh man.” 

 

Lance slumps down on the bed.  _ Oh man _ is right. Now that it’s all out, he’s realizing how crazy this sounds. And also, how he’s in way over his head. He can’t do this alone. 

 

Pidge gets up, pushing her way between Hunk and Lance, fingers nimbly retrieving her glasses off the nightstand, to settle down in front of her computer. “The first step is finding Keith.” 

 

“So you believe me?” Lance perks up. 

 

“Obviously,” Pidge turns to him. “What did you think we’d say, you big dummy? Even if you did wake us up in the middle of the night, we’re still a team.” 

 

“Yeah,” Hunk lifts his hand for a fist bump. “We’ll get out of this together, like we always do. Go Voltron!” 

 

“Heck yeah! Two legs and an arm! We got this!” Lance cheers. “Wait, is it technically two arms and one leg now?” 

 

Hunk shrugs. Semantics. 

 

Pidge’s fingers pause on the keys. “Wait.” she says. “I have data on Keith’s sword.” 

 

“And?” Hunk waves a hand, waiting for her to continue. 

 

“What?” Lance squawks, “How?” 

 

“I asked him if I could analyze its chemical properties after his initial visit with the Blade of Marmora.” Pidge sounds matter-of-fact, like this is an obvious thing she would do. 

 

Lance imagines Keith tugging the blade out of his holster, expertly flipping it in his hand so that he could offer it handle side first. “ _ Just,” _ his eyes would flick downwards for a moment, then back up to meet Lance’s gaze, “ _ be careful with it _ ,” he’d say, a little hesitant. 

 

“Keith never let  _ me _ see his knife.” Lance grumbles. He crosses his arms, sullen. 

 

“Dude.” Hunk gives him a look. He turns to Pidge. “So you analyzed it…?”

 

“Meaning I have data on its chemical composition. I have the chemical structure of luxite.”

 

“Ooooh!!” Hunk slaps his fist into his palm. “That’s where you’re going with this! Awesome!”

 

“Uh, guys?” Lance opens his arms, hands palm side up. “Care to explain?” 

 

Pidge is clacking away at her keyboard---Hunk explains. “So, Keith’s knife is made out of that super rare, Blade-of-Marmora-exclusive stuff right? Luxite?” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“And we know the general place where Keith was headed, even if everybody disappeared, which,” Hunk laughs, “Obviously didn’t happen, but.” 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“So we can trace it!” Pidge finishes, spinning in her chair to give Lance a triumphant smile. She leans back and with a flourish hits the final key. A little red knife icon pops into life on L-ang01e5s. 

 

Lance sucks in a breath. “You mean to tell me, we are in possession of a _ GEN-U-WINE _ Keith Detector??” 

 

“GKD for short,” Hunk decides. 

 

“Pidge you are a genius,” Lance tells her, deadly serious. Then he thinks of something. “Hey, can we call him?? I bet you can pull some crazy hacker skills and call him Pidge!!!” 

 

“Hmmm,” Pidge agrees. 

 

Lance wraps his arms around her shoulders from behind and rests his chin on the top of her head, watching the text fly across her screen. Then the call goes through---

 

He scrambles over her head, ignoring everything but the drumming in his ears, the  _ relief _ that washes over him like a high---Keith’s  _ alright _ , thank quiznack he’s  _ alright _ \---to pick up the communicator.

 

…

 

“Is your refrigerator running?” 

 

Keith’s mouth does the wonderful thing where it’s between a pout and and frown, like he can’t decide if he’s confused or angry or wants to laugh. Lance would travel galaxies to see that expression. Heck, he  _ will _ travel galaxies to see it. He’s about to. 

 

“Lance.” Keith sighes out his name like it’s something sacred. And the way he’s looking at Lance, a desperate sort of fervor in his expression, like the screen between them is killing him and saving him all at once. “Man, am I glad to see you,” he murmurs low, as if he’s saying it for himself and not to be heard. 

 

But Lance does hear it, and it catches his breath in his throat. He barely manages to garble out some semblance of a reply. He forgot how intense Keith could be. The depth of his eyes. Living alongside Keith for months gave him a certain tolerance---he had grown accustomed to him in measures, like slowly sinking in to cool water. But they’ve been apart; his tolerance is gone, and the way Keith is looking at him throws him into the deep end all at once. He drowns. 

 

Hunk saves him. “We’re glad to see you too, Keith,” he grins into the screen, leaning over Lance’s shoulder. “Mind confirming a little theory I have? That you’re still on a planet? And you didn’t just randomly disappear?” 

 

Keith runs a hand through his hair, and Lance catch a glimpse of a swatch of purple snaking up his neck, tapering to a point just above his jaw. That’s new. He watches it shift as Keith responds: 

 

“I’m definitely here. But the disappearing thing. Uh. Well.” 

 

Keith gives them a brief summary of his location. He’s been alone. His ship is non-operational. No one has successfully contacted him up to now. 

 

Lance twirls the data drive with the coordinates around his index finger like a jingling set of keys. He turns to Pidge and Hunk. “You guys thinking what I’m thinking?” 

 

Three words: Intergalactic Road Trip. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I mention this was a slow burn/slow build? lol 
> 
> but next chapter!! our boys should finally come face to face. right?


	5. Keith III: speed up. slow down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pidge, Hunk, and Lance finally make it to the planet where Keith has been stranded.

***

 

Keith thumbs the volume control on his communicator for the upteenth time. It’s as loud as it will go, but he’s still convinced he’ll miss a notification from his team. He hasn’t heard from them since they called before. Since then, his handheld, like the planet itself, has been dead silent. Not entirely satisfied, he slips it back into place on his suit and slides the lock feature on the car door to open. 

 

It’s been thirty-six days since he landed. 

 

That’s probably not true. 

 

It’s been thirty-six indeterminate units of time. Thirty-six bleary eyed mornings, uncurling himself from the seat of the car, flexing his hand that has gone stiff from gripping the hilt of his knife. Thirty-six weary, ineffectual searches. Long hours during which his senses remain heightened: every glint of light or muffled door chime threatening to send him into a cold sweat, despite the fact that he’s yet to find  _ anything _ of note. Thirty-five starless not-nights; the pink clouds thick and unchanging and immobile above. 

 

He drops lightly to his feet out of the car. The automated door in the wall ahead rotates open as he approaches the building. The overhead lights brighten from their soft glow. 

 

A grocery store on Earth would have music drifting through some sort of speaker system, but the only noise here is the timorous  _ pokpok pokpok _ of his soles as he pads across the tiles of the produce section. He plucks something not unlike an apple from the hovering pillars that serve as shelves. The crisp skin doesn’t crack like it should as he bites into it. But, it’s still sweet. Fresh. Munching, he makes his way to the back of the store. 

 

There’s no shortage of supplies on this planet, at least there’s that. He’s avoided residential areas for the most part, more comfortable in the military base and the businesses at the heart of the city. This shop sits just outside the park where he was when Lance and the others called him. 

 

That was five ‘days’ ago.  

 

Still, he is alone. 

 

The drinking water on this planet is interesting; the store doesn’t sell bottles or containers of it, but instead, little pods that fit in the palm of one’s hand but dissolve when they touch the tongue. Finished with his breakfast, Keith pops one into his mouth, the zing of the minty flavor it’s infused with almost as refreshing as the water itself. He adds enough water pods for a day’s rations to his bag, contemplating what else he should grab before he heads out of the city. 

 

He leans over, adjusting the straps on his bag. When he stands upright, he has a clear view through the aisles to the large window at the front of the store. 

 

There’s a face looking inside. 

 

His fingers tighten on the bag. He freezes. 

 

Slowly---slowly---he unclenches his hand. Never taking his eyes off the face, he inches his hand around his body, encloses it around the handle of his knife. Does it see him?

 

It must not. Because a moment later, the eyes disappear from view as the figure turns and walks away. 

 

Staying low to the ground, and as close to the perimeter as possible, Keith makes his way up to the front of the building. The window is a pearlescent sort of transparent when he gets very close to it. His breath leaves a spot of condensation on the surface as he sidles up next to it to squint out into the street. 

 

Empty. No one is around. 

 

His car is still there. Seemingly undisturbed. 

 

“Fuuuck.” Keith allows himself to sigh, collapsing into a corner. His back slides down the wall as he sinks to a sitting position, the hand not gripping his knife pressed firmly against his sternum. His pulse is racing. 

 

He fumbles the communicator out a moment later when the rapidity of his heart is no longer making it hard to breathe. No missed calls. His eyes flutter shut. 

 

Where are they?

 

*

 

It’s two ‘days’ later and he’s just found a place to stop the car for the ‘night.’ 

 

He’s taken extra precautions since seeing the face in the window. If someone,  _ something _ , is here with him, they certainly conceal themselves well. He scoured the surrounding area after he was in the store that morning, and found no evidence of anything besides himself being present. 

 

But….who’s to say that his ‘neighbor’ would leave footprints on the squeaky clean streets of the city? Or, make even the smallest sound in this mute world? He can’t shake the feeling that he’s not as alone as he previously thought. 

 

Just to be on the safe side he’s changed his routine and moved to the opposite side of the city. He’s sleeping in a different place every night, never lingering anywhere for long. It’s exhausting. Even more so because, tired though he is, restful sleep is becoming more and more difficult. 

 

He flips over to his other side. 

 

Where are they? 

 

A horrible piece of him has decided that they aren’t coming. 

 

(They aren’t coming for him. They aren’t  _ actually _ coming, just like couple who took him to the park when he was seven and still believed that he wouldn’t be in the foster care system until he was eighteen. “You can call me Sandy, sweetie,” the woman had said, smiling down at him, squeezing his hand to emphasize certain words. To this day, the smell of honeysuckle reminds Keith only of her syrupy perfume. And the man had bought him a waffle cone ice cream. The edges were dipped in chocolate, so Keith ate around those, careful not to spill or make a mess, carefully saving the chocolate edges for last. They said, when they left him back at the foster home, that they would see him again soon. It took him a long time---much longer than it should have, he decided later on---weeks and weeks and weeks---to realize that ‘soon’ is just something people say. ‘Soon’ isn’t real. And they weren’t coming back.) 

He trusts his friends. They  _ are _ coming. They told Keith as much. 

 

(His father trusted his mother. He still did not live to see her return). 

 

He sits up, rubs the nonexistent sleep from his eyes. Tries not to doubt. 

 

On the call, Lance was happy to see him. 

 

As someone who had learned reservation as a means of self-defense early in life, when they first met, Keith found Lance’s extreme personality difficult to parse: sometimes blithe, sometimes snarky, sometimes flirty---Lance cycles between emotions at a rapid pace and a nearly intolerable volume. 

 

Lance’s expressions are constantly overdone---the wild motion of his brows, the way he pokes and prods at the air with his hands, or sucks air past his teeth before launching into a counter argument. Lance _ feels _ in a big way. 

 

He’s seen Lance blubber-cry. The team attended a wedding on a planet called Onesto, and Lance was absolutely bawling five dobashes in. (Shiro and Hunk lost it soon after, and then Coran, and then Allura...it was a long afternoon). 

 

He’s seen Lance having the time of his life, beaming from ear-to-ear while playing something very like  _ fútbol _ with local kids on Rog87-9. Chattering to them in his native tongue because they reminded him of his cousins and there’s no language barrier when everyone understands that the objective is getting a ball into a goal. 

 

He’s seen Lance’s shoulders silently shake from laughter, eyes tearing up, slapping the couch between him and Hunk. 

 

He’s seen Lance angry.  He’s seen him whiney. He’s seen him exhausted. 

 

But...exaggerated sighs and snappy comebacks don’t always tell the whole story. Keith lived and fought side-by-side with Lance for months before he became conscious of how intricate a performance Lance’s fast mouth and arching brows could be. 

 

Lance will draw himself away from the group if he’s feeling down. Somebody brings up home and Lance’s smile is a little more wistful than wide, or if Lance thinks he’s alone in the training hall and resolved determination is written over his features. Or the painful curve of his slender back, knobby spine, as Lance curls into himself, hugging his knees on the floor of the observation deck when he thinks everyone else is asleep. 

 

Keith keeps to himself because he’s learned that’s  _ safe _ ; that’s not going to get him scolded, or hurt, or worse, sent away. Lance does the same thing, except, his heart is shielded in loud laughs and obnoxious jokes and cringe worthy pick-up lines. 

 

Once Keith began to notice---the quiet Lance, the loud Lance, the Lance who feels so fervently, but doesn’t always want others to know---he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Or his heart.

 

He knows Lance well enough, Keith convinces himself, to be able to recognize the genuine relief that spread across Lance’s face when the call connected. Keith summarized the situation he was in on this mission gone awry, and, although all three of his friends were concerned about him, Lance couldn’t quite work the smile off his expressive mouth. Lance was happy to see him. 

 

That smile. It was gentle. Warm. The way his eyes danced above it, tracking Keith’s every movement. He can almost believe that Lance...Lance misses him. And maybe, maybe it’s not that crazy...maybe Lance misses Keith in the same way that Keith misses him...

 

It’s an indulgence he shouldn’t allow himself. 

 

Irritated at no one other than himself, he pulls up the screen for the car’s controls, flipping through the settings until he finds the one he wants. He slides one finger down the screen and a panel above him dissolves open in response. He hikes one leg up on the back of the seat and hoists himself onto the roof of the car. 

 

The air is stagnant but he tries to breathe deep all the same. 

 

What he wouldn’t give to see the stars right about now. Or, if not the stars---

 

Something has parted the clouds. 

 

He picks up his comm and rises to his feet to stand on the roof. Keith doesn’t see what it is, but he does see the little indent it makes in the pink puffs and the white chemtrail it leaves behind. He closes his eyes, bites at his bottom lip, hoping, 

 

With a muffled click, a familiar grin pops onto the screen above his handheld. 

 

“Beep, beep! Keeee~ith your ride’s here,” Lance sing songs. He’s in the pilot’s seat of one of the Castle’s ships, not a Lion. Hunk is behind him and poor Pidge is squished in there too. 

 

It takes a moment for Keith to work up the response. 

 

“T-took you long enough.” Keith tells him, attempting to swallow the stupid-happy off his face. It gets stuck in his throat as he drops back into the car. Feeling a bit punch drunk off the giddy feeling that’s rushing over him, he starts her up. 

 

“Excuse me? Excuse me?” Lance sputters. “Keith! You ungrateful, little---”

 

“Where should we meet you?” Pidge asks, leaning over Lance’s shoulder. 

 

“Yeah, I want to get out of this seat, like, yesterday,” Hunk adds. He does look a little green. “I’m pretty sure Lance broke the speed limit in at least five solar systems.” 

 

“Like I couldn’t talk us out of a space-ticket if I had to,” Lance rolls his eyes. His hands move with purpose over the complex dashboard of the ship like he could fly her in his sleep. Keith swallows again. 

 

“D’you see the six spired building at the city’s apex?” Keith asks, moving his gaze to Pidge with difficulty. He describes the arches and the cathedral-like structure. “I’ll meet you there.” 

 

The chatter of his friends makes for wonderful background noise as he drives the short distance upwards to the city’s center. He’s never been so happy to be on the edge of a conversation. Pidge is practically drooling over the technologically advanced civilization. Hunk is all nerves, the eerie quiet getting to him right away. Lance effortlessly tempers the two conversations, pulling Keith in as well. “I’d say this is a definite upgrade from your first place, dude. Desert shack has  _ nothing _ on ultra swanky alien metropolis.” 

 

“Believe it or not, I’d take the desert over this place any day.” 

 

Lance lets out a long suffering sigh. “No accounting for taste n’all that, I guess,” he shrugs. “Okay man, we’re here. Where are you?!” The screen gets a slightly warped as he jostles the camera, climbing out of their ship. 

 

Keith looks around. “Um.” He gets out of the car, but it’s very obvious he’s still alone. “Are you sure you’re in the right place?” 

 

“Oh you must’ve meant the  _ other _ fancy-pants, smack-dab-in-middle of everything citadel!” 

 

“Pretty sure, I only saw one--” Hunk starts, “Oh I get it, that was a joke, ha. Good one, Lance.” His face scrunches up. “But seriously dude, this place is too creepy.” 

 

Keith holds the communicator at arm’s length so they can see the building behind him. “No, I’m right here.” He flips it and does a pan over the glossy fiberglass-esque structures that line the walkway. “Right in front.” 

 

“Huh.” Pidge takes the comm away from Lance. “That’s weird.” She also holds her device in front of her. “Keith, take two steps to your right. No---your other right. Okay, stop.” 

 

Keith watches her tilt her head. She studies the screen, then lowers it, then brings it back up. 

 

“What is it, Pidge?” He asks, impatient. 

 

“Guys, look at this.” She motions to the boys standing behind her. 

 

“Woah.” Hunk breathes, “Freaky.” 

 

Lance frowns at the screen, leaning deep over Pidge’s arm. He takes a step forward, and his hand disappears from Keith’s view. He’s attempting to touch something behind the screen. “Keith,” he breathes. 

 

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” Keith demands, waving one arm. 

 

“We’re in the right place--” Hunk begins, 

 

“But you’re not here.” Lance’s eyebrows are knit in the way that certain way that they sometime do. His eyes drop and he looks pained. Keith hates that expression. 

 

“I don’t understand.” Keith’s voice is tight with anger and he spits the words out. “I  _ am _ here. What is going on?” 

 

Hunk looks uncomfortable. “I dunno, Keith, you’re here but you’re not. I don’t like this, like, logically, it makes no sense….” He starts to ramble, nerves apparent. 

 

Pidge is off screen. Keith angles the device to find her rummaging around their ship. She stands on her tippy toes on one leg, reaching inside, and then pulls out her laptop. 

 

“I have some ideas.” She settles down on one of the wide smooth stairs, leading upwards towards the entrance of the central building. “But before that...would you mind telling us what’s happened so far?” She adjusts her glasses. “In as much detail as possible, just in case.” 

 

Keith sits down ‘beside’ her on the steps. He describes the unremarkable landing, the ease of collecting the data chip. He tells them about finding his ship non-operational, the loss of the communication functionality of his handheld. He maps out the places he’s searched---

 

“Wait. Keith. Hold up. You’ve been here how long?” Lance sits up from his position two steps above them where he’s been listening, sprawled out. 

 

It’s not an exact count, but just shy of forty days. 

 

Lance’s expression is nothing short of horrified. 

 

“No, no.” Hunk interjects. “Kolivan called us when you’d been missing about fourteen varga.” He draws an imaginary timeline on the marble-like surface of the stairs. “Lance was so worried, we called you not even ten varga later. And, we got Allura to wormhole us just outside the system, so it didn’t even take us a full quintant to get here.” 

 

Keith opens his mouth and then closes it. How can that be true? They’re saying he’s been gone less than two days….but he  _ knows _ it’s been longer than that. He can’t prove it though. Nothing has changed since he arrived. 

 

Echoing his thoughts, Pidge asks: “Is there  _ anything _ that  _ has _ changed?” 

 

“No, nothing.” Keith looks down at his lap. If he closes his eyes, it’s just like they’re here with him. But they’re not. In reality, he’s sitting on these stairs all alone, still talking to them through a shaky connection. His hand finds its way into the collar of his suit, pulls out the little stone. He runs a thumb over the surface before squeezing it tight. It’s gone completely black. 

 

Oh. 

 

“Except this.” He opens the palm of his hand in front of his screen to show them. Pidge peers into her monitor---so close to the high def screen he can see the smudge marks on her glasses. 

 

“I found it when I first got here. It was, uh, a really striking blue.” He turns it over in his hand, awkward. “I liked it so--anyways. It turned sort of blue-green for awhile. Then mostly clear. But now it’s like this.” 

 

He sets it down. 

 

Lance lets out a high pitched shriek at the same time that Hunk startles, “woah,” and Pidge lets out a little hiss of disbelief. 

 

“What?” Keith swivels the comm to see Lance scrambling bug-eyed and backwards up the stairs. 

 

“Keith! Warn a guy next time you’re gonna do some hocus pocus stuff!!” Lance scrubs a hand through his hair. “You can’t just  _ fwoooosh _ ,” he splays his hands out from his cheeks to accompany the sound effect, “things into existence like some kind of broody space magician,” 

 

“What are you--” 

 

Pidge picks up the rock. 

 

Keith’s mouth falls open. 

 

Because, he can see the stone on the monitor with Pidge, but, it’s no longer visible in his surroundings. It vanished. 

 

“Wha--” 

 

The line goes dead. 

 

“No!” Keith stands up. “No!” Hands balled into fists, shoulders tight, he paces from the car to where they were standing and back again. His jaw clenched, he tries to get the connection back on his comm, with no luck. Both times he’s spoken with them have been incoming calls. His device still reads as offline. Frustrated, he rattles off a string of expletives, wrenching the door open on the car. He throws the handheld in the seat and collapses down next to it.  

 

He can… he can…

 

He doesn’t know what he can do. His hands are shaking. He presses his palms against his temples, fingertips digging into his scalp, head in his hands. He chokes back a sob, holds his breath for a moment. 

 

*

 

He climbs the stairs to the building. It’s several hours later, or not,  _ he can’t tell _ , he doesn’t  _ care. _ All Keith knows is that they’re gone. And he doesn’t know what else to do. 

 

Although it looms at the central crest of the city, this is the first time he’s entered this building. It seems somehow older than its surroundings: the wide doors must be pulled open rather than the ubiquitous automated doors of the buildings below. Tall, narrow windows line the walls, letting soft light filter into the wide hall. Impossibly high ceilings are covered in the civilization’s elegant, looping words. The huge room is completely empty; but, an indent is carved out of the floor, almost like a very shallow pool. It doesn’t have water in it though. Nothing is in it at all. 

 

When the Galra Empire invades a planet, the soldiers are notorious for destroying the existing culture---art is seldom left untouched, harsh, angular graffiti scrawled over precious surfaces, defiling monuments and destroying the resilience of the planet’s inhabitants in one fell swoop.  The inestimable worth of what’s been lost to the bored hands of Galran foot soldiers across the galaxies is sickening. 

 

But not this planet. Even in this most important building, everything looks untouched by the Galra. He takes a few steps inside, hoping for what, he doesn’t know, but his breath is tight in his chest. 

 

There’s nothing here. He doesn’t know why he expected otherwise. He feels numb. His shoulders go slack. 

 

“-----” 

 

Keith raises his head. He didn’t exactly hear anything, or see anything, but. The light changed. Like someone moved and he caught a glimpse of their shadow across the hall. He stands up, blade in his hand before his mind even registers he might need it. “Who’s there?” his voice echoes through the chamber. 

 

His handheld pings to life. “---eith? Keith?” 

 

Lance’s voice. 

 

“Lance!” Keith almost drops his blade, the feeling of relief is so strong. His friends. They found him again. They found him and he’s not alone and--- 

 

Another shadow darts across the corner of his eye. He can’t let his guard down, not yet. Lance is saying something, but Keith tunes him out, focusing on his surroundings. Something is here. He slinks to the side of the room, so that he has a wall to his back. His eyes drop down just long enough to catch Lance’s face on the screen. “Shut up for a sec,” he hisses. 

 

“Oh. Okay. Sure. I fly  _ across the galaxy _ to rescue a guy from Planet Creepy, and what does he say to me? Not ‘Thanks, Lance, my buddy, my pal,’ not ‘Gee what did I ever do to deserve someone so dashing and handsome in my life’ not---” 

 

“Lance. You are gonna. Get. Me. Killed.” Keith grits out. “Shut up.” 

 

Lance raises an eyebrow. “Why do you have your swo---Keith, calm down a second.” 

 

“Don’t tell me to---”

 

“I know, I know. But, I promise, you’re not in danger.” Lance waves his hand airly. “Believe me, I get it. Us Red Paladins---we cut first, ask questions later. It’s just our thing. But---” 

 

“You don’t even have a---” 

 

“Do too.” Lance sets the handheld down at such an angle that Keith can see him from the waist up. He summons his bayard to his hand and with a little wiggle (that Keith definitely should not find as endearing as he does), manages to transform it, not into a gun, but a sword. 

 

“Woah.” Keith tilts his head. “That’s new.” 

 

Lance smirks and swings the sword through the air. It looks natural, like he’s done it a thousand times. The weapon is impressive. It looks good in his hands. Lance looks so good, confident and firey and focused---

 

Until he drops it. The bayard slips right out of his hand and Keith hears it clatter across the floor, off screen. “Whoops,” Lance smiles sheepishly at Keith before he bends over to pick it up. 

 

“You said I’m not in danger---do you know what’s going on?” 

 

Lance more or less ignores him, examining the hilt of the sword, a little sulky. “I haven’t dropped it in forever, but, I dunno, I guess my hands get sweaty sometimes and then the grip isn’t great.” He shrugs. “Red Paladin probs, am I right?” Lance’s pout slips into an easy smile and he shoots Keith a wink. 

 

And Keith definitely shouldn’t melt at something so stupid. His heart definitely shouldn’t squeeze a bit too long in his chest, and he shouldn’t lose his train of thought, and he shouldn’t and he shouldn’t... 

 

Goddamnit, how did he used to function like this on a daily basis?? 

 

“That--that’s why I wear gloves.” He says, dumbly. 

 

“Ah!” Lance adopts a dreamy voice, “ _ In time all will be made clear.  _ Even Keith’s questionable fashion choices….” He strokes an imaginary beard, pensive. “But tell me, O Wise One, for what purpose must the jacket be cropped?” 

 

“You--!” Keith starts, but he actually can’t think of anything to say about Lance’s clothes. Because his green jacket has always struck Keith as being pretty cool---lots of pockets and comfortable looking. And he can’t really say anything about his jeans---Lance’s legs go on forever in them, but that’s just his  _ legs _ , and well, Keith, he would be lying if he said he didn’t want to see more of those legs, but that’s not really a counterpoint, is it? And Lance’s shoes always seem to stay weirdly clean, but Keith likes that too. And everything else is blue, and fuck if Lance doesn’t look good in blue---

 

“I don’t even wear that jacket anymore,” he settles on. 

 

Which must be the wrong thing to say, because Lance’s shit-eating grin immediately slides off his face. “Yeah.” He scratches at the side of his nose. “Guess you don’t.” 

 

Lance gets unusually quiet as he goes back to fiddling with his bayard. Keith coughs lightly to fill the silence that’s rapidly becoming awkward. He asks the obvious question: “Uh. So. Where are Pidge and Hunk?” 

 

Lance smiles big, but it’s not his genuine one. “Keith, have I got a story for you,”   

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Yeah.” Lance frowns, wrinkling his nose a bit. “But let’s move somewhere else though, this place is too,” he waves his hand. 

 

Keith nods. He ‘follows’ Lance across the hall, deeper into the building. He watches Lance’s back on his handheld just in front of him, striding confidently through the long beams of light that crisscross the floor. 

 

Lance seems to be familiar with the building, judging by the confidence with which he directs them. “Try to keep up, mullet,” he tosses back, leading Keith down a narrower hallway. Arches that mimic the huge ones supporting the city span out into a courtyard below. 

 

“How do you even know where you’re going?” Keith shoots back. 

 

Lance answers without turning around. “So.” He raises one hand after scratching his head in a kind of half shrug. “The thing is: time.” 

 

He turns and Keith gives him a blank look. 

 

“I’m not going to be able to explain it as well as Pidge and Hunk, but the gist is: you’re here. I’m here. The timing is just off.” Lance says shortly, as if that explains anything. 

 

The path loops and a set of stairs takes them downwards into the courtyard. The area is open to the outside city----and just outside the building’s walls, his car is parked. 

 

“How?” Keith asks, frowning. “This isn’t where I left---” 

 

“I knew it was yours!” he crows, way too smug. “Take that Pidge! There’s  _ no way _ that our favorite hot head would pass this baby up, I told her,” 

 

“What?” 

 

Lance opens the door to the passenger side and slides in, motioning for Keith to do the same on the driver’s side. “It’s going to take a little while, but, basically you are stuck in the wrong time, my guy, and it’s gonna take those extreme nerd friends of ours to get you out.” He smiles at Keith through the handheld. “And, well, I’m not much help up there. So I figured I’d keep you company down here. Hope you don’t mind a little extra Lance in your life.” 

 

Keith snorts. “You are so---” 

 

They sit side by side. Lance gives a few additional details of what he keeps referring to as a ‘Time Bubble,’ but it makes pretty much zero sense. Keith tells him as much---but rather than be offended Lance almost seems relieved. He changes the subject to what’s been happening around the Castle since Keith left. The anecdote he starts to share is pointless and goofy, and Keith can feel his heart start to lighten with every ridiculous word that leaves Lance’s mouth. 

 

It’s easy to talk to him like this. Easier than it used to be, like somehow, in the time they spent apart, they forgot what used to divide them, and now that they are together again, the past memories they share makes them closer than they ever were before. Keith’s voice is rough from disuse, he’s almost hoarse already, but he wouldn’t trade this conversation for anything. 

 

Keith has never lived in one place long enough to return to it, but he thinks that this is what ‘coming home’ must be like. 

 

The conversation comes to a natural lull. Lance stretches---his long, tan arms extending outside the view of the screen. They would maybe brush over Keith’s head if he and Lance were actually in the car together. Lance finishes the stretch by rolling his shoulders, then self-satisfied, snuggles into the seat. He looks strangely sated, watching Keith through the screen with half-lidded, sleep-heavy eyes. Keith saves this face to his collection of Lance expressions. He wants to keep it for later, savor each varying slope of his cheeks, slant of his smiles...

 

“So, uh, what’s new with you?” Lance smirks wry at himself, “well, besides the whole being stuck on a deserted planet thing, I mean, like….how’s life after Voltron treating you?” 

 

It might be a good thing they’re still talking through a screen. A good thing that, apparently, they are inexorably separated by a layer of time. Even so, Keith has to crack his knuckles to prevent himself from attempting to smooth down Lance’s soft looking hair. Warm brown, tinged in caramel, floofing over the seat. It’s gotten longer since he’s been away. 

 

Keith shifts in his seat, looking toward the matte black roof of the car. What can he say? His time with the Blades has been frustrating. Enlightening. Powerful. Lonely. 

 

He hasn’t even told Shiro yet. But there’s one thing that---one thing that he  _ wants _ to share with Lance.  He didn’t realize it until just this moment, but somehow, Lance needs to be the first one to know. 

 

“I found my mom.” 

 

The car goes so silent that for a moment Keith thinks the connection is lost on the call, but then Lance explodes into happiness: “Keith!!” He’s sitting up in the seat, slapping the dashboard in exclamation. “You---!” He shakes his head, at a loss for words. His smile is so genuine it makes Keith’s cheeks ache to look at it. 

 

“That’s why I have this---from her. She has it too.” Keith pulls off one of his gloves and unzips the collar of his suit to run a fingertip from his jaw down his neck. He’s seen Lance’s eyes linger over the mark as they’ve been talking, so he rakes his hair back, exposing the purple skin completely. “It’s kinda....a tattoo,” he explains lamely, before zipping the suit back up. 

 

“You and your mom have matching face tattoos?” Keith isn’t looking at the screen, but he can hear the light smile covering the disbelief in Lance’s voice. “Man, Galra relationships are super metal.” 

 

Keith laughs a little because of course Lance would phrase it that way. 

 

“No really, I’m so glad--that’s--” 

 

“It’s okay Lance, I knew what you meant.” Keith turns the glove over in his hands. The fingertips are frayed; it’ll have to be replaced soon.

 

It’s not quite what Lance is imagining, he thinks. He tries to elaborate: “It’s not a permanent tattoo, like with a needle or something.” He pictures the delicate brush and the small pot of ink---tools that looked so out of place in his mother’s quarters aboard the Galran starship. “The ink stains the skin...and then gradually fades.” 

 

She said it was a promise. 

 

That day had only been the second time he met with her, just the two of them, and it was difficult. Not sure how to talk about it, he swallows around the words. He catches a soft glance through the screen and pulls his eyes away from the raw emotion in Lance’s blue eyes. 

 

Krolia---his  _ mother _ \--- a  _ stranger _ \---the way she looked at him. She was strong, even by the Blade’s harsh standards, valuable as an agent, cunning and powerful. But her voice shook when she spoke his name. It was so difficult to believe that this person, who he barely knew, could feel so much for him. Overwhelming.

 

“‘Before the ink fades, I will come back to you,’ that’s what she said it meant.” Keith’s voice sounds dull in the motionless air. She’d been wearing the mark since she left Earth, she told him. Over and over again, she reapplied it, thinking of the child she left behind. 

 

She was overly formal with him, never crossing any boundaries. But Keith could see the weight of her emotions in the way her hand trembled as she picked up the brush.  _ You don’t even know me _ , he had thought. Her pinky finger rested against his cheek as she swept the mark into a perfect point. It was the most tender touch he’s ever felt. 

 

He crumbled under it. Later that day, the amethyst ink barely dry on his skin, he had requested that Kolivan assign him to a mission which Krolia was not involved. 

 

He ran away. Just like he did with Voltron. Just like he will do with his feelings for Lance. Because he can’t…

 

“It was worth it then,” Lance decides, so soft that Keith almost doesn’t catch it. His eyes meet Keith’s through the screen. A kind of sad-happy glistens in them, and Keith is sure he hasn’t seen that expression before. He would remember. 

 

“I’m selfish,” Lance confesses. “I didn’t want you to go. But if you found your mom, it was worth it. It was worth everything.” 

 

“Lance,” he decides,

 

Whatever he was about to say dies on his lips, as Lance turns, noticing something outside the car. 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you might notice that the chapter count increased. Two more left!


	6. Lance III: lost my heart between the sheets of lightning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance found Shiro after a nightmare. Something’s not right.   
> The team finally manages to contact Keith; he’s been all alone. They go to find him, but….he’s not there. Something’s not right.

***

 

Pidge picks the smooth, black stone up from the marbled surface of the stairs. Her question still hangs in the air, almost ominous:  _ “Is there  _ anything _ that  _ has _ changed?”  _

 

Lance hears her tongue click in interest, but he isn’t watching her expression as she turns the rock over in her palm. His eyes are trained on the screen, watching Keith. A swipe of bruise-purple sits heavy under both of his eyes. He’s jittery---more expressive than usual, but also constantly checking his surroundings, on edge. Keith stares too hard into the screen, like if he looks with enough intensity, he’ll be here with them. It’s painful to watch, but Lance can’t find it in himself to take his eyes away. 

 

That’s why he sees the exact moment when Keith’s wary hope changes to one of dismay: his eyes flash panic, his mouth parts, and then. He’s gone. 

 

The connection severs. Keith is no longer on the screen of the communicator. 

 

“Where’d he go?” Lance demands, standing up to get a better look. “Pidge, tell me you can get that call back.” 

 

She nods, handing Lance the rock. It feels warm to the touch, more so than he would expect from body heat alone. Freaky. Keith said that he’s had this crystal with him since he landed. He squeezes it tight in his palm as Pidge swears, fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop. 

 

After a moment, Pidge shakes her head, still adjusting the settings. “I don’t think it’s where Keith went,” she says slowly. “I think it’s where  _ we _ went.” 

 

“Nope, don’t like the sound of that, un-uh,” Hunk decides, getting to his feet. “We need to figure this out, like, yesterday,” 

 

“Where  _ we _ went?” Lance says, incredulous. “We’re right here!” 

 

*

 

But, where _ exactly _ is  _ here _ ? 

 

*

 

After Lance’s Emergency Paladin Meeting following his conversation with Shiro, they wanted to leave to find Keith as soon as possible.  

 

Lance went to Allura alone, while Hunk and Pidge scrambled to get the cruiser they’d be taking ready for flight. To say he was nervous would have been an understatement: convincing Pidge and Hunk is one thing, but convincing Allura, well. That’s something else entirely. 

 

(He thinks that no matter what he does, he’ll probably always be the goofy guy who throws lines at her, even though they both know it’s more of a joke than anything. And he’s okay with that---really. They’ve gotten closer these past few months since she began piloting the Blue Lion; they’re friends. He likes to make her smile, even if it just precedes a groan. If she only thinks of him like that, as a joke, if she always regards him as the weakest link, hey, that’s okay. 

 

But. Right now, he needs her to take him seriously, just this once. Not for his own sake, but for Keith. For Shiro.) 

 

Swallowing, he knocks on her bedroom door. As if expecting him, Allura answers without pause, her soft curls spilling over the shoulders of her nightgown like the artificial moonbeams that skim the floor behind her. Her makeup has been removed for the night---fresh skin, her eyes bare but that much more striking, lips unpainted but still full. She’s utterly gorgeous and it does  _ nothing _ to calm his nerves. 

 

She listens to him, regal and silent, as he describes the situation. Hearing Shiro. The call with Keith. He finishes, voice laced with sincerity: “Look. I know--I know it sounds crazy, and maybe it’s not my place, but,” he opens his hands, “Keith needs us. And if Shiro was actually Shiro, he’d get that. Heck, it would be him standing here instead of me, probably.” 

 

She catches his nervous fingers, presses his hand. “Perhaps not, Lance.” A gentle squeeze. “I agree---we must take action. I’ll wake Coran. We will proceed to the outer reaches of the quadrant at once.” 

 

“Really?” Lance raises his brows in disbelief. That was….easier than he expected. 

 

“For all your flippancy, Lance, you have always had sound judgement. I know you always have the team’s best interest in mind.” She smiles at his obvious surprise, and continues, voice tender:  “In many ways, you are Voltron’s heart.”

 

Lance looks down at their clasped hands. “Uh, not to ruin this little moment we’re having, but isn’t that exactly what I said to you?” 

 

Allura huffs, dropping his hand. “It’s quite strange that humans have only one heart. Any respectable Altean has two at least.” She flicks her hair over one shoulder, daring him to disagree. 

 

“Huh?” Lance narrows his eyes. “Is that true?” He allows a knowing grin to overtake his face. “Are you sure you don’t just like stealing my lines?” 

 

She draws herself up to her full height, smoothes down the front of her nightgown, straightens her shoulders. “Lance. Original pilot of the Blue Lion. The only man in the galaxy currently able to wield an Altean broadsword. _ One _ of Voltron’s hearts. Go. Bring back my missing paladin.” Her mouth softens into a smile. “Your lines are not  _ all  _ bad.” 

 

Lance feels lighter than he has for some time. “You got it, Princess!”  He waves her a sloppy salute before rushing to the holding bay to meet Pidge and Hunk. 

 

*

 

So. 

 

The general consensus----and by general consensus, Lance means ‘what he thinks’ and Pidge kinda sorta does her own thing and Hunk is amenable to whatever as long as it’s not overtly dangerous----the general consensus is that they need to find out what ‘here’ actually is. 

 

They left the Castle quickly, true, but as Coran so eloquently opined: “Wouldn’t matter if you had ten ticks or a decaphoeb to prepare----you’d still be going in blind!” The datalogs on the ancient Altean castle were all but empty when it came to this planet. A few footnotes here and there, but no actual information on the history or people of L-ang01e5s. So they flew down, “blind as a bleesor,” with the promise to maintain constant contact at the first sign of alien life apart from their own. 

 

But, there’s no one here. 

 

And, holy crow is it weird. 

 

After losing Keith on the call, they walk down the central street, away from the steps leading to the massive structure at the city’s apex.The city is squeaky clean, every building on either side immaculately maintained.  Just…..empty. And not a sound can be heard. No cars, no music, no machines. No birds or bugs or wind. Not the squeak of Hunk’s shoes or Pidge’s slight wheeze as she carts around her computer equipment. 

 

If he were to close his eyes, it would be like Lance was here all alone. A vacuum of sound and time. He can’t stand it; he shouts too loud: “Man, is this place giving me the heebie jeebies or what!!” 

 

“Yeah, my jeeb is like suuuper heebed, one hundred percent,” Hunk agrees, broad shoulders hunched. 

 

“Will you guys shut up,” Pidge says, more nervous than angry. Lance knows she’s just as creeped out as the two of them, because when he insists on carrying her heavy looking bag, she passes it off with not nearly as much fuss as usual. 

 

Pidge has a theory, she tells them. But they need more evidence. Divested of her pack, she spins and turns to Lance, wiggling her fingers: “Sword.” 

 

“Huh?” 

 

“Your bayard, Lance, I need it.” She rolls her eyes as though this is obvious. 

 

He summons the blade, carefully handing it to her, hilt side first. “Mind if I ask why?”

 

“Bait.”  

 

Lance leans over, one elbow resting on a futuristic looking street sign, and watches her with one eyebrow raised. She then asks him for the rock as well, and he hands that over too, still confused. 

 

“Pray tell, bait for what, my little Pidgey?” he drawls. “If you haven’t noticed, we kinda have the place to ourselves.” 

 

She ignores him, but with nimble fingers, puts the final touches on the apparatus. Lance’s sword is sitting on the ground, with the small rock secured to the back of the hilt. She tightens the trap above with her own bayard. “When he touches your bayard, this will activate,” she motions upwards, “and then---”

 

“Wait. When  _ who  _ touches my bayard?” Lance asks again.

 

“Keith. Obviously.” 

 

“Um, Pidge. If you haven’t noticed…..Keith isn’t here???” Lance says, with a sweep of his arms. 

 

“Guys, come look at this.” Hunk motions, his face pressed to a store front window. It looks like a grocery store. “I swear I just saw someone move,” 

 

Lance joins him, eyes narrowed, nose poking against the window. He waits, one, two, three ticks, before heaving out a sigh, fogging up the glass. “Nope, didn’t see it. Nothing there.” 

 

“We should maybe go inside. Or not.” Hunk moves closer and then away from the door, undecided. “I kinda do wanna see what kind of snacks they have in there, but I also, uh, don’t want to get killed. Or eaten. Oh man, can you imagine getting eaten in a grocery store, like,” 

 

“Hunk,” Pidge begins--- 

 

_ THWAP  _

 

_ Srrrttttttt  _

 

_ THUD _

 

The three of them wheel around in perfect unison, to find the yellow cord hanging slack in the air. 

 

“Whaaa the cheese?” Lance stalks up to it. “What just happened?” 

 

Pidge picks up the rock. “It worked.” She scratches the top of her head. “Kinda.” 

 

“If it worked, where is he?” Lance demands, pointing up to the empty air. “Hell~llooo~” 

 

“So my theory is,” Pidge begins, handing Lance back his sword, “Is that _ he’s _ here and  _ we’re _ here, but---” 

 

“So you mean to tell me, that Keith got caught, Houdini’d himself out, and then walked away, all in the past 0.2 seconds.” Lance states, unimpressed. 

 

“How long things take for him is not how long they take for us,” Pidge explains. “It’s time dilation, simple,” 

 

“You mean like time dilation, time dilation?” Hunk asks, interested. 

 

“Sounds dirty,” Lance comments.  

 

He’s ignored by both friends. 

 

Pidge opens her computer, excited. “When I was younger, me and my dad would always have this debate, see---” She launches into a complicated analogy with two cars and a street light and Einstein is probably there and Lance doesn’t really know what’s going on, but apparently it made for some rousing dinner conversation, back in the day. 

 

(Privately, Lance thinks that Mr. and Mrs. Holt have some questionable child rearing techniques...Then again, Pidge’s insatiable appetite for K N O W L E D G E and S C I E N C E doesn’t leave much room for small talk). 

 

Without warning, a streak of red---saturated, harlot, blue-based red----blazes over their heads. A car. Fast and flashy. They duck their heads, the engine revs, once, twice,  before it zooms out of sight. 

 

Lance lets out a sigh. “Okay I believe you. That was definitely our Keith.” 

 

Pidge looks at him sideways like,  _ really?? _

 

He shrugs. There’s nobody in the galaxy who flies quite like Keith. 

 

Hunk smacks his fist into his palm. “Oh I get it! It’s a time bubble. He’s in a Time Bubble.” 

 

“What the quiznak is a ‘Time Bubble’??” 

 

“I kinda just made it up,” Hunk tells them. “But listen,” he holds up a hand in a fist. With the opposite hand, pinches his index finger and thumb together as if he’s holding an imaginary needle. He brings the imaginary needle close to his fist and,  _ pop _ , opens both hands. 

 

“I call Pidge for my team next time we play charades,” Lance remarks dryly. He also pretends to hold a needle, but instead of puncturing imaginary bubbles, he mimes poking Hunk. He gets in at least one good pinch. 

 

“Owww, Lance knock it off, would ya?” Hunk shoo’s him away. “ You have to admit, it’s a pretty apt metaphor.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance waves his arms around like noodles, “After that I  _ toootally _ understand exactly how one minute I could be chilling with my best bros and the next minute I’m on a different plane of the space-time continuum.” 

 

“Not a bro,” Pidge holds up one hand in objection without taking her eyes off the screen. 

 

“Honorary bro.” Lance corrects. “Bro-in-spirit. Bro in all the ways that truly matter. Bro ‘til---”

 

“But now the question becomes,” Pidge cuts him off, “what are we going to use as the needle?” 

 

Hunk purses his lips: “Ecliptic particle acceleration?” 

 

Pidge wrinkles her nose. 

 

“Yeah,” Hunk agrees, “That’s a little over dramatic,” 

 

“Hey, go big or go home,” Lance adds, entirely unhelpful. 

 

Musing, Hunk takes the ever-present pencil out from behind his ear and flips open a tiny notebook. He sits down next to Pidge. “Okay so I’m thinking: If we assume the Lorentz transformation holds true, and we assign, say,” he begins jotting down numbers faster than Lance can understand, “where T-prime is,” 

 

“Okay,” Pidge nods, getting excited. “And it follows that,” 

 

Lance feels himself start to glaze over. He’s long since given up trying to decipher Team Punk when they start to go full-nerd. Not that he didn’t enjoy astrophys 201 as much as the next guy (okay, the TA was really hot---she shot him down with  _ such _ a glare), but...

 

*

 

After way too much math and Hunk making multiple puns about the theory of relativity that Lance only sort of understands (but he groans like he fully gets them, because he knows puns are bad, regardless), Pidge and Hunk seem to have  _ something _ . Some kind of thing. Solution. 

 

Pidge hits the final key with a satisfied snap. 

 

Nothing happens. 

 

Lance raises an eyebrow at her from the spot on the ground where he’s sprawled out. He turns the stone over in his hand. At first, it appeared to be black, but if he holds it above his head, the light shines through, revealing a very deep purple. He’s tempted to let it remind him of Keith’s dark, solemn eyes, but that’d be cheesy, so he won’t. 

 

Pidge repeats the keystroke. “Why. Isn’t. It. Working.” she asks through gritted teeth. 

 

Hunk squints at the screen. 

 

“Maybe,” Lance starts, 

 

“That was purely rhetorical, Lance,” She waves him away, still typing. “Gimme a sec,” She readjusts her position, settling the laptop on her lap, but so that Hunk can still see the screen. 

 

Lance sighs. Stowing the rock in his pocket, he pulls himself up into a cross-legged position, hands on his ankles, butterflying his knees up and down. If she’s still making herself comfortable, this might take awhile. He claps his hands. “Okay, well, Pidge, looks like you and the big guy have a handle on the situation here, good job with that.” 

 

Once again, she ignores him, totally. 

 

“What’s that?” Lance holds a hand out to his ear as rolls to his feet. “You think it’d be alright for me to go explore for a bit?” He wiggles his fingers, “Huh? ‘You’ll call when you make progress on detonating the creepy time planet bubble?’ Okay sounds chill, my dude, see ya in a littlebitbyeeee.” 

 

He trots off, tossing the purple rock in his hands, back and forth, juggling as he walks down the deserted street. 

 

Lance fresh from the Garrison might have balked at walking around a creepy alien city alone. Truth be told, even now, Lance prefers being with his friends. But when he imagines Keith being stranded here for  _ forty days _ , all by himself, well. How can Lance be afraid to walk around for five minutes?

 

He imagines how Keith must have felt, being stranded here. If he doesn’t know about the Time Bubble stuff, does he just think that no one came looking for him for  _ that _ long? The rock settles into Lance’s hand, a warm weight. He squeezes. That’s too sad. He must know that everyone misses him, right? That---no matter how long he’s been with the Blades---the team would never just  _ forget _ about him. That Lance could never….

 

He  _ must _ know. Right? 

 

*

 

Lance isn’t too far from the steps where they first started talking to Keith. He takes them two at a time, eyes trained upwards on the doors of the building. Something inside seems to be...almost  _ calling _ to him….It’s probably just his imagination that the rock seems to grow a little warmer. 

 

He pulls open the heavy door with a slight “oof,” nearly tripping over the threshold. He bounces on his feet, tipping sideways into the room. He walks backwards, eyes trained on the crazy decorated ceiling and walls of the place. He whistles in awe----the noise sounds sweet as it trills and echoes in the huge chamber.  

 

“Woah, some great acoustics in herYAAH---” his arms windmill as he almost falls backwards into a shallow pool that covers a majority of the floor. He manages to regain his balance---narrowly avoiding falling in---but the rock in his hand goes flying. 

 

And----stops in mid-air. 

 

Right above the pool. 

 

Which doesn’t contain water. 

 

But does contain  _ something _ . 

 

The something starts to quiver. 

 

“ _ Oh. Quiznak _ .” Lance breathes. 

 

It looks like oil---black and thick with a sheen that shines rainbowed-iridescent. The liquid begins to churn below the rock. Drips of it slowly rise up from the pool to join the rock. 

 

_ It’s not a rock at all. _ Lance thinks. The drips hover above the swirling pool, growing in number as more and more of the liquid rises. 

 

The liquid stills. Each drip-rock, each crystal----because he can see light through some of them, sparkling color, casting multi-colored shadows on the walls like a prism----stops its movement above the pool. Then, they ripple and open---stretching like honey in the air, like a glassblower’s art in creation. 

 

A huge noise shakes the many windows in the walls of the hall. The sound of it deafens Lance---he claps his hands over his ears, falls to the ground, but the noise is deep. Its low frequency reverberates through him, like a drill to his teeth, he can feel it. 

 

And then. 

 

The liquid is gone. The rocks are gone. All is quiet. 

 

His handheld beeps. 

 

“Lance.” Pidge sounds almost panicked. “What. Did. You. Do.” 

 

“Nothing!” Lance eeps out. He thinks of the rocks twisting and turning in the air above his head. “...on purpose.” 

 

“Lance,” Hunk starts, uneasy---

 

“Did I pop the bubble? Maybe?” Lance asks, voice hopeful. 

 

Hunk grimaces. “Nope. You, uh, kinda,”

 

“You’re in the bubble now.” Pidge tells him. 

 

“I’m what---?!” 

 

They tell him that now he has the same kind of reading as Keith: Here. But not here. 

 

Lance slumps.  _ Great. Nice going, Lancey Lance. _

 

Wait. 

 

“Does that mean I can find Keith?” 

 

“Different bubble.” Hunk says. 

 

“Hold up!” Lance throws his hands up in a time out. “No one told me there could be multiple bubbles!! How can there be multiple bubbles?!” What’s the point of rescuing someone from a time paradox only to get stuck in a  _ different _ time paradox? This is the worst. 

 

“Deep breaths, man,” Hunk advises. “We almost have it figured out, and then we should be able to get everybody back on the same timeline. And--Oh yeah! We found the car!” 

 

Lance pinches the bridge of his nose. Was finding the car really a priority? Whatever. “So what do you need me to do?” 

 

“You still have the mini-probes I developed for the mission on Rog87-9, right?” Pidge taps a finger insistently on the track pad of her computer. “First I need to know everything about where you are right now.” 

 

“Right-y oh! One batch of everything-there-is-to know, coming up.” Lance has been on enough recon missions at this point to know exactly what Pidge means. He pulls the little white ovals out of his belt-pack. 

 

“Benedict, Over-Easy and Sunnyside, you guys do your thing, okay?” Lance calls out their names as he tosses them one by one into the air. They float for a minute, blinking green as if in response. Then, each one opens up a digital plane around itself, scanning wall-to-wall from the floor to the ceiling. The small probes whizz off in three different directions, transmitting the layout of the building back to Pidge. 

 

A three dimensional map unfurls before his eyes---the probes detail winding hallways and other chambers, though none are so large as the one in which Lance is currently standing. 

 

“Got it.” Pidge tells him, voice firm and soothing. “Okay, now listen: Hunk and I are going to take the car here,” a little red car springs into life on map, “and if we have this right, by the time you get there with Keith, we should be able to have the ‘pop’ ready to go.” 

 

Lance swallows. “Okay.” He sets the coordinates on his comm and crosses his fingers that the call will go through. It’s time to find Keith. 

 

*

 

Keith answers the call wide-eyed. He whispers Lance’s name with an urgency that sends a chill down Lance’s spine. Keith is terrified. 

 

“Keith. Calm down a second.” 

 

Lance suddenly hates everything about this. He hates that Keith is alone and he hates that he has to talk to him through this stupid screen and he hates that he can’t just gather him in his arms and---

 

He does his best to calm Keith down. He pulls out his bayard, tries to looks cool. Fails. But, to his relief, he at least manages to summon that same perfect expression---the one that’s right between a pout and a frown. 

 

He leads Keith to the car. 

 

He imagines that this is just another mission, like how it used to be before Keith left. When Keith was leader and Lance had his back, irrevocably. When they were closest. 

 

It’s been so long since he’s had Keith to himself, Lance gets a little carried away: 

 

He starts telling Keith about the time the team spent on a planet called Pomkle, a place in which every single inhabitant---from the smallest animals to the most important people--- had two little antennae above their eyes. “We had a running bet,” Lance snorts, already smiling, “about what they were for: Pidge thought it was for communication, like telepathy or something. Hunk was all like, ‘no man, it has to be for smelling or sensing each other,’ and Coran thought it was something kinky like a  ‘mating ritual.’” Lance puts his hands over his eyebrows, wriggling his index fingers around. “The longer we spent there, the more ridiculous our theories got: maybe they can use them to listen to the radio, maybe they tell the weather, maybe they turn colors in a state of emergency, maybe they just don’t want to run into any doors---” 

 

He gets caught up in the way Keith’s eyes crinkle when he’s barely holding back a smile. Or the way his mouth moves, just a little, when he repeats something ridiculous under his breath,  _ “run into doors, _ ”

 

“But anyways, by the end of the week, we were all so fed up with guessing that Allura just up and asked them!!” Lance crows at the memory. The Queen was  _ so _ offended! “Get this: it turns out,  _ all of us were way off!! _ The stupid little antennae that  _ every single _ person had,” he pauses for dramatic effect: “Was for keeping their eyes clean!” Lance gasps out the rest, he’s cracking up: “Like built in windshield wipers!!!” 

 

Keith has a hand over his eyes, shoulders shaking, a real, honest-to-god laugh escaping his mouth, “What the hell?!” 

 

“I know!!” Lance slaps the seat between them, almost forgetting that Keith is on the other side of a screen, and not there with him. “Oh man, I wish you woulda been there. We were  _ dying _ .” 

 

Keith looks at him fondly through the screen. “It’s good to talk to you,” he says. 

 

Lance ducks his head. He hopes it sounds less nervous than he feels when he replies, heart soaring, “That’s--that’s probably the fifty days of isolation talking,” 

 

Keith is still smiling. Just the corner of his teeth poke out, it’s a little doofy. He’s adorable. “It has been,” he clears his throat, “It has been awhile since I talked this much.” 

 

“Yeah.” Lance thinks about how Keith’s been all alone. He doesn’t know how Keith managed it. He woulda gone crazy in like a day. But, not just here. Keith’s been all alone, for awhile. “Guess Kolivan isn’t exactly a chatty Cathy.” 

 

At that, Keith snorts:  “No, he really isn’t.” 

 

_ Why’d you leave _ , Lance wants to ask.  _ Please come home _ , he wants to say. Instead he asks, almost flippant: “How’s life after Voltron treating you?” 

 

And Keith tells him: he found his mother. 

 

Keith so rarely shares. Lance falls silent, afraid to break the spell, to say the wrong thing. The emotions that travel over Keith’s face are still raw: joy and guilt. Self-derision, self-preservation. Hesitancy. Loneliness. It’s...a side of Keith that he’s never been allowed to see before. It’s...

 

“I’m selfish. I didn’t want you to go.” He tells Keith. He imagines himself being even more honest:  _ I’m selfish; I don’t want the others to find us just yet. Not when you’re sitting here, looking at me like that. I’m selfish; I don’t want to tell you about Shiro and put the universe back on your shoulders. I’m selfish; I want you to keep talking to me---low and mumbling---so that I can imagine I’m the only one you want to say these words to. I’m selfish because I want,  _

 

Something rumbles in the distance, breaking the heavy silence of the planet, interrupting Lance’s thoughts. 

 

“Lance,” 

 

Lance tears his eyes away from the horizon and looks back to the screen. Keith is looking down at his hands, expression unreadable. “There’s something I have to tell you,” Keith begins. 

 

The rumble repeats, more insistent now. Strong enough to shake the car around them. Lance’s brow furrows, he leans forward in his seat to look out at the sky. “It almost sounds like…” 

 

Lance fumbles at the door, barely remembering to grab the comm. He sees Keith on the screen opposite him, standing up out of the car, one hand resting on the open door. He’s looking heavenward. Lance follows his gaze. 

Deep red-gray clouds are rolling in overhead, overtaking the thick, pink layer that’s been lying over the city since their arrival. A chill sweeps across the ground, cool air running up Lance’s legs, whipping his hair out of place. It’s gotten dark. 

 

Lightning cracks blue across the sky. The unmistakable clap of thunder follows, and then, the rain. 

 

The sound of it is deafening. Sheets of water pulse against the ground, staining the smooth surface of the street pitch black. Lance raises his face, breathing deep, arms stretched out, as the fresh water soaks him down to his skin. He can’t help but laugh, giddy at the sensation that feels so much like home. Sudden storms, racing his older siblings back to the house, puddles making his flip-flops slippery. “Keith,” he says, turning towards him, splitting the name he adores with a smile. 

 

Keith is gone. 

 

“Keith!!” Lance repeats, no longer smiling, shouting that same name over the downpour. Another flash of light illuminates his surroundings for a split second. Another, louder, crack of thunder makes him jump. He brings the screen of his comm close to his face, squinting at it for any sign of Keith’s dark silhouette. He’s gone. 

 

Lance turns back to the car. His hands slip over the sleek door as he tries and fails to open it. The cold rain is what’s making his eyes water, he decides, not the frustration of losing Keith again, definitely not---

 

“Lance.” 

 

Looking down at the screen, Lance tries to figure out which direction Keith’s voice is coming from. Another crash of thunder drowns everything else out. 

 

“Lance!!” 

 

He whips around, “For pete’s sake, Keith, you---” His breath catches, “You,” 

 

Keith is standing there, just behind him. He steps forward, close enough that Lance can see the rain droplets bouncing off his shoulders. Not on a screen, but actual, physical Keith. 

 

Keith staggers closer, intent on closing the distance between them, but unsteady on his feet in a way that Keith never is. 

 

“Wo-ooah there,” Lance rushes to catch him, barely managing to hook his arms around Keith before stumbles. “You really know how to make an entrance, you know that?” 

 

Keith doesn’t respond, but his slack arms tighten to encircle Lance, pulling him close, so their chests are flush together. Lance has the thought that----old memories aside--- he’ll never be able to separate the howling of the wind and the pouring rain from the feeling of Keith again.  

 

“W-we’re s-soaking wet, Keith---I’m happy to see you, too,” his heart feels like it might explode, he’s so relieved, “b-but is now really the time to hug it out?” 

 

Keith nods, his wet hair sticking to Lance’s cheek. 

 

Well then. Lance inhales a shaky breath. After months and months apart, after days of worrying, Keith is here, safe. In his arms. Keith’s head is bowed on his shoulder. In disbelief, he tightens an arm around Keith’s waist, the other already nestled in his hair, cradling the base of his skull. “I’m happy you’re okay,” he repeats, face upturned, eyes blinking out rain and tears. 

 

Keith shudders against him. 

 

“What were you going to tell me?” Lance asks him, still marveling at how well they fit together. “In the car?” 

 

Keith mumbles something into his neck. Lance can’t make it out over the steady beat of rain, the drumming of his pulse. 

 

“Hmmm?” he prompts, hand dipping from the back of Keith’s head to his bicep as Keith pulls away slightly. His face is etched with exhaustion, but he blinks slowly to look at Lance. His eyelashes are thick and dark with rain. The two of them are almost the same height, but Keith raises his chin all the same. Lance used to see that expression--hesitant, guarded---and mistake it for pride, but he knows Keith better now; Keith is trying to choose his words with care:  

 

“I’ve never seen the ocean before.” 

 

Lance follows a droplet of water as it collects at the edge of Keith’s bangs, drips down the side of his nose to pool at the line of his jaw. He thinks of the vastness of the ocean and the awe that it stirs in him, as his thumb brushes the drops away, only for more to gather in their place. He doesn’t quite understand. “The ocean--?”

 

Keith reaches up and catches Lance’s hand with his own. It stays there, curled against the back of Lance’s hand, as he closes the distance between them. He nods, almost imperceptibly,  _ yes the ocean _ , before his mouth is pressed against Lance’s in a gentle kiss. 

 

Lance has imagined himself kissing Keith...well. A Lot. An embarrassing number of first kiss scenarios have run through his mind in the time that he’s known Keith: In a passion after a victory in battle, laughing and teasing after Lance says something particularly witty, sensual if they just, somehow, happened to meet late at night, or his, uh, favorite---hot and heavy against the wall of the training deck. But, nothing….nothing could have prepared him for the real thing. 

 

He wonders now how he could have ever thought that Keith would be rough. His movement is hesitant, mouth slow and soft and impossibly hot against Lance’s. Lance deepens the kiss, adjusting their position with light pressure against his jaw. Keith responds to his touch, supple mouth opening, head tilted just so. Keith kisses like he does everything else---with effort undivided, his whole self committed to this one act. He’s telling Lance the world; mouth so sweet against his, like Lance is something precious he can’t be without. Lance pulls away, just for a breath---he’s overwhelmed, overheated despite the cold, cold rain----and a low, needy noise escapes from Keith’s throat. It’s better than any fantasy.   

 

The rain drums down relentlessly around them. He can feel Keith shiver against the cold: a sliver of sharp teeth against his lips. He sighs out Keith’s name and Keith kisses into it: a light press just at the edge of his mouth. 

 

“Keith,” Lance repeats, to say what, he doesn’t know, but Keith has finally reached his limit. He rests his head against Lance’s shoulder again, and then, Lance feels his body go slack. 

 

“Woah, okay, uh,” Lance stutters out, collapsing as well under Keith’s sudden weight. He’s on the ground on his knees, with Keith passed out in his lap. Okay. 

 

He stretches out one arm, just barely managing to brush the edge of the handheld from where he dropped it earlier. “Okay man,” he grumbles a little at Keith, because really? He can still feel the exquisite pressure of Keith’s mouth on his lips, eager and perfect, but now Keith is dead-to-the-world? What kind of situation is this? “You’re officially heavy.” With a little scooting, and rearranging of his comatose partner, he manages to flip the comm over. And is met with a very cranky Pidge. 

 

“Lance!!! We have been trying to reach you for  _ over ten minutes _ what the _ actual hell _ have you been  _ doing _ ?” 

 

Lance motions to his full lap. “Hey guys, I found Keith.” 

 

“Jeez, dude, what did you do to the guy?” Hunk peers into the screen from behind Pidge. She’s flying them down to the surface, and, by the looks of it, a little frazzled by the turbulence from the storm.

 

Lance feels his ears heat up. “Uh? Nothing?” 

 

“Those forty days must’ve gotten to him all at once. Maybe there’s some kind of exhaustion coefficient, like for every hour you spend in the Time Bubble it counts as---” 

 

“Time travel really takes it out of ya, huh?” Lance agrees, struggling to get to his feet. Keith is absurdly heavy.  _ An extremely dense, exhausted, soaking wet boy, _ Lance thinks.  _ Who is a really amazing kisser, _ he amends. “Anyways,” he says with a slight cough, “I may need you guys’ help to get him into the ship.” 

 

*

 

Booming thunder rattles the buildings around them as Pidge sets the shuttle down next to the car. Lance has managed to scoop Keith up into his arms and teeters forward. 

 

“You better not drop him,” Pidge warns. She looks a little misty-eyed at seeing Keith in person again. She’d probably blame it on her glasses being fogged up from the rain if Lance tried to tease her about it. But there’s no time....

 

Lightening slices the sky into pieces, cracking from all six of the spires of the central citadel. The thunder roars. They need to leave. 

 

He tightens his grip around Keith’s thighs. “Relax Pidge, I got him. Let’s just get out of here.” 

 

“Want me to take him---man you guys are soaked---here, I--” Hunk motions to take Keith from him, and although that’s the logical choice, Lance’s heart just won’t let him go. 

 

“It’s okay buddy, I don’t mind.” He settles into the seat as Pidge prepares the ship for takeoff. Keith is sound asleep in his arms. His mouth is slightly open, and Lance can feel the puffs of Keith’s breath against his neck. His cheeks are wet with rain; Lance tries to dry them a little with the back of his hand. 

 

“We should probably get him to a healing pod asap,” Hunk worries, twisting in his seat to look at them both. “Pidge and I were monitoring you guys from up here.” He goes on to explain to Lance about the power surge they were trying to create to ‘pop’ the Time Bubble. It doesn’t make much sense, but then again, Hunk is very enthusiastic about it, so it must be complicated. His tone turns more serious. “When the storm finally broke, Keith disappeared.” He looks troubled. “We lost him for 243 ticks. That’s like four minutes, Lance. I have no idea where he was or what happened during those four minutes....He was just. Gone.” 

 

“Alien abduction, maybe?” Lance jokes. 

 

“Exiting the atmosphere…” Pidge warns, interrupting their conversation, “....now.” The ship rocks violently for a moment as the cabin adjusts to the artificial gravity once more. 

 

“...who knows what temporal anomalies do to your insides man, just to be on the safe side.” Hunk finishes. 

 

“We’ll get him to a pod,” Lance agrees. 

 

Keith stirs in his arms. His hand reaches clumsily around his back, clasping at thin air. Lance’s heart aches as he realizes Keith is searching for his knife. He grabs Keith’s hand and squeezes gently. “Hey man, it’s okay. You’re with me and Hunk ‘n Pidge. No worries.” 

 

Keith blinks, eyes fluttering, fighting sleep. 

 

“Hi Keith,” Hunk says, slinging an arm back to pat Keith’s knee. “Glad you’re okay. You had us all worried there for a minute, dude.” 

 

“Not for the first time,” Pidge adds. Her eyes leave the controls long enough to give Keith a fond look. “Of course, it wouldn’t be Keith if he wasn’t getting involved in some unnecessary danger…” 

 

“Hey! Cut him some slack, Pidge, he just---” 

 

“Lance siding with Keith, wow that’s new---maybe we should put you in a pod too,” Pidge smirks at Hunk, raising her eyebrows above her glasses. “What kind of ‘temporal anomaly’ is th---” 

 

“Oh, can it, Pidge,” Lance retorts, completely without bite. 

 

“Guys,” Keith says. He still seems half asleep, but he’s trying to say something. “...” 

 

“Shhh,” Hunk reassures him. “You don’t have to argue just because Lance is being Lance.” 

 

“We left…? Should’ve woken me up,” Keith mumbles. 

 

“Yeah, sorry not sorry, Keith. You clearly need the rest.” Lance rearranges Keith’s bangs with his free hand. Keith looks funny with his hair off his forehead. Lance smooths down one thick eyebrow with the pad of his finger, resisting the urge to press a kiss to the arching widow’s peak of Keith’s hairline. His hair is fast becoming a frizzy mess as it begins to dry. Not a good look. 

 

It’s probably a testament to how tired Keith is that he doesn’t resist the touch, but instead, simply closes his eyes again. His head drops back down to Lance’s shoulder. Lance swallows. He whispers: “Hate to break it to you man, but we’re almost home now. You even missed the complimentary ginger ale and those little bags of pretzels. And I don’t think the flight attendant is coming back.” 

 

Keith hums something unintelligible against his neck. Lance holds him close. 

 

“Paladins,” Allura hails them as they approach. “Report to the bridge immediately upon arrival.” She looks at Keith and her expression softens for a moment. “Unfortunately....We have a bit of a problem.” 

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just one more chapter left~


	7. Keith IV: i wanna know  you, while we have the time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last chapter!! We have a lot to do! Here we go!!

***

 

Keith is...

 

*

 

One moment he’s getting out of the car opposite Lance. Lance has his eyes on the dark clouds rolling in overhead as he walks forward, a few steps away from the car. Keith isn’t watching the sky, but rather, the screen with Lance’s image on it: the way the wind tousles Lance’s hair, picking up even the short tufts that lie on the back of his neck. Lance says his name. 

 

One moment Keith is there, opening his mouth to respond, his hand gripping the top of the car door, his eyes on the screen, and the next moment he’s not. 

 

*

 

The blaring of a car horn jolts Keith as if out of a dream. The car door is solid under his hand. He’s not dreaming, but...Keith’s head is swimming. The clouds are gone. He looks down and is startled to see someone---presumably one of the inhabitants of this planet, an alien---sitting in the driver’s seat of the car. The alien’s face is twisted into an expression of anger. He honks the horn again, makes a rude gesture at Keith. 

 

Keith stumbles back into the street, the sounds of traffic loud, deafening in his ears. His hands instinctively rise to cover them, even as he looks wildly around, trying to figure out where he is. The alien hits the gas, his car pulling forward into the congested street. A smaller hoverbike blazes past Keith on his other side, narrowly missing him. Keith spins,  _ what is going on, what happened, where--- _

 

(a crack of lightning)

 

He’s blinking, eyes adjusting to the light. It was bright in the street, but he’s indoors now. The sound of children laughing---it must be laughter, though they’re not human and so it’s not quite the same---dies down as they notice him. Two kids, just taller than his waist. He’s in their bathroom, in that house he visited the first week he was stranded. The smaller of the two tilts their head, watching Keith with interest. Dumbly, he turns the faucet back on. The kids blink. Keith opens his mouth---

 

(the rumble of thunder) 

 

He’s in the grocery store, tinny overhead music barely registering in his ears, before---

 

(the storm rages)

 

He’s in the Galra base, the Blade agent spots him, eyes going comically wide at his unmistakable Marmora suit. He shoves Keith against a wall, covers his mouth while they hide as a sentry walks past. He hisses a curse, one that the universal translator doesn’t parse, but that Keith knows from experience will get you a warning look from Kolivan. “What are you---” 

 

(Keith can feel the wind on his face, the rain soaking into his boots)

The world shifts again and Keith is in the park, his favorite place on this lonely planet. The park where his team called him. The park where he tried to center himself each morning, stretching and thinking and hoping….but at this moment he’s not centered, not at all. The world is shifting around him, a mess of time. He lurches forward, doubled over, nauseous. 

 

A couple, elderly maybe---their skin is grayer than that of the previous aliens he’s seen, wrinkled at the edges of their eyes---shouts in surprise at his arrival. Their fear melts into concern as Keith balks. One has a hand to their chest, the other reaching out. He backs away, shaking his head, bile still rising in his throat, “I’m sor---”

 

(lightning so bright it makes him dizzy, immediately followed by thunder booming, once, twice) 

 

“---ry.” He slips but instead of falling backwards on the plush grass of the park, everything spins. He finds himself on his hands and knees, staring down at the smooth tile of the central citadel. Heaving out a breath, he sinks onto his elbows, forehead pressed to the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut, his hands curl into fists in his hair.  _ What is happening….!? _

 

He tries to steady his nerves, breathes deep---in and out, _ focus _ \---but he’s so, so tired. Whatever is happening, it’s draining. With every time jump he’s getting more and more confused, thoughts as jumbled as the scenes he’s witnessing. Nothing makes sense. Nothing has made sense since he came to this goddamn planet. The tile is cool under his skin, he wants to just close his eyes, 

 

(he made a promise to himself: he can’t give up, not until he tells him)

 

Drawing on his last reserves of strength, he rises to his feet. He’s unsteady. 

 

When he first visited this room, it was empty. Now the floor is covered in a  pool of viscous, black liquid. The reservoir thrums with power: the liquid churns and spins, droplets of it rising into the air. Keith teeters at the edge of it, watching the drops rise to shine crystalline above his head. 

 

“Ahem,” 

 

Keith’s focus is redirected to a figure standing on the opposite side of the pool. Large almond shaped eyes meet his, and although the aliens of this planet don’t have eyebrows to raise, the person seems to be giving him a quizzical look. 

 

Keith swallows, holds his hands out, partly to anchor himself, partly to look non-threatening (although the people of this planet don’t look imposing, he doesn’t know if he can summon the energy to defend himself against  _ anything. _ At this point, he can barely stand). “I’m---I’m Keith. I don’t---I’m just trying to---” 

 

The alien rolls their eyes. A wide, digital screen appears at their waist. They bow their head, effectively ignoring Keith as their abnormally long fingers pluck at the screen. The crystals halt their motion, suspended in midair. They ripple, each one’s color changing to the same clear, bright blue he picked up off the sidewalk. Another button press and the color drains out of them; clear as glass, they reflect the light and twinkle like stars above his head. The alien raises one hand, gives Keith a little wave from across the pool. Keith copies the motion in reply, unsure. 

 

All at once, the crystals drop. 

 

*

 

Ice cold water crashes over him, like three hundred and sixty joules to his heart. Keith gasps in a breath.  

 

He’s drenched within seconds. He has to remind himself to exhale, even as he shivers, instinctively folding into himself. It’s dark. It’s raining. He doesn’t know where he is. The sound of thunder, the aggressive beat of the storm on his shoulders stuns him, reverberating in his skull. 

 

It should drown out all other sounds, but one voice cuts through the noise: “Keith!!” 

 

He stumbles, does not fall. 

 

He’s in Lance’s arms. 

 

“I’ve never seen the ocean before,” he tells him, disoriented, aware only that this is Lance, that he is no longer alone.  _ I’ve never seen the ocean before, but I saw it with you. Maybe moments like that aren’t for me, but I... _

 

Lance’s eyes, clear and blue and searching. Lance’s hand over his. Everything else fades away. 

 

*

 

When Keith drops out of the healing pod, his mind is still foggy, but, even so, he knows exactly where he is. He rubs his arms against the cold, sensation pooling back into them like pins and needles. 

 

The smell is the same. That’s the first thing that his sluggish mind notices. It smells like the combination of Coran’s awful aftershave and the lingering remnants of whatever Hunk cooked last and the laundry detergent they got at the last swap moon and....and a million other things. It smells just like he remembers. It smells like home. 

 

He’s back. 

 

He pulls the tension into his tired, heavy limbs, pressing the well-worn keypad to release the lock on the medbay’s sliding glass door. The hallway clicks and hums and buzzes with the familiar ambient sounds of the Castle of Lions. It’s strange---being back after so long. He knows the twists and the turns of the castle’s hallways by heart. His feet take him to the common room automatically, leaving his mind to wander. 

 

No matter how much the alien technology might heal, he never feels quite right after being in the cryopod. The cold sinks in too deep---it lingers. He’s still in his typical Marmora suit….but something warm is sitting against his chest. He reaches into the pocket there and is surprised to find the little stone from the planet. It’s clear now, perfectly void of color. Keith turns it over in his palm as he thinks. 

 

(He pushes dreams of solid hands and concerned murmurings out of his mind. He can’t...not here, not when there are so many memories of him, and the real person achingly close,)

 

He’ll need to notify Kolivan of his return. The data he was sent to retrieve….he gave it to Pidge, so hopefully she’s already forwarded it to the Blades. Obviously the planet has some kind of time manipulation technology (magic?) that can be leveraged as a defense against outsiders. The Galra empire would surely....

 

The lilt of Lance’s voice drifts through the air before he can make out the words. He gets closer, the door swishing open in time to hear Allura’s response: “It will not be a simple task, Lance. Shiro is---” 

 

“What about Shiro?” Keith enters the room from the side, his question proceeding him. It hangs unpleasantly in the air for a moment. 

 

It must be late. The lights are dim and it was just the two of them. Lance is sitting, leaning against the armrest of the couch, ankles crossed, facing Allura who is perched on a cushion opposite him. From the looks of it, they’ve been talking for some time, and the conversation seems to be very different than Lance’s typical lighthearted fare. Allura’s tone had been grave. Lance stands when he sees Keith. 

 

It’s physical, Keith’s reaction. The long lines of Lance’s body. The way he carries himself, posture loose and sloppy and perfect. The ridiculous grandiosity of his expressions. Keith clenches his jaw. It’s been a long time since they were together, and screens just don’t do him justice. Keith has to make a solid effort to hold his ground, rather than rush forward to feel Lance solid under his hands. He cracks his knuckles. 

 

“Keith!!” Lance practically shouts his name. “You’re out of the pod! How are you feeling?!” 

 

Keith crosses his arms. He knows Lance well enough to recognize the redirection of his question as well as the distressed uptick in his voice. “I feel fine,” he says shortly. “Where is Shiro?” 

 

Allura looks meaningfully at Lance. He presses his lips together, shakes his head. She sighs. 

 

“Shiro is currently en route to Vrepit Mal.” She pulls up the star map, splaying a galaxy of holographic planets around them. A few steps to her right and she cups the miniature Galran flagship with her hand. “He has taken the black lion.” 

 

Keith lets out a shaky breath. While Zarkon was alive and ruling his empire, he was known to use several different starships. Vrepit Mal was the largest of these, Zarkon’s most favored---and also his most lethal, most impenetrable. His witch, Haggar, is almost definitely still residing on board. 

 

“He is with Lotor.” Allura’s graceful hand guides the model of Lotor’s ship towards the black lion hovering in front of her. Her voice does not waver as she continues, but she also does not quite meet Keith’s eyes. “I believe that my worst fear has come to pass: Prince Lotor has indeed turned against us. He follows in his father’s footsteps, blinded the power of the black lion. And Shiro has been caught in the middle.” 

 

“Or,” Lance butts in, eyes dark, “they’re working together.” 

 

“That doesn’t sound like Shiro.” Keith says, tone short. 

 

“Shiro hasn’t been...himself lately.” Lance says. His shoulders sag. “The mood swings have been crazy, man. One second he’s normal Shiro and then next minute he’s Mr. My Way or the Highway.” Lance’s gestures seem much more restrained than normal, but he still chops the air with a hand as he explains. “I don’t expect to like, be in charge or whatever, but he just doesn’t seem to value the team at all anymore.” He rubs the back of his neck. 

 

Keith noticed something similar before he left to join the Blades. He thought Shiro was just disappointed in his inability to effectively lead. He thought that Shiro felt that his skills had plateaued---he’s a pilot, but what else does he really have going for him?---and since Keith couldn’t handle the responsibility, Shiro was taking over once again. Keith crosses his arms a little tighter, hugging himself. If something was going on with Shiro beyond that, he failed to notice. 

 

Lance must mistake it for him being cold. He shrugs off his jacket and wordlessly drops it over Keith’s shoulders. 

 

“That’s not the only thing,” Lance continues, not meeting his eyes, “Shiro kinda told me he’s been having...visions...bad ones.” He shakes his head. “I’m not that close with him, but you are, Keith. I was hoping you could talk to him better, and we could figure this out, but.” He throws his hands in the air. “Now this stuff with Lotor! Who knows what that grape-faced jerk is planning!!” 

 

Realization strikes Keith. “You needed me back because of Shiro acting weird. Because I’m the one he trusts the most.” He nods, understanding. Of course. No wonder the team was so intent on finding him. 

 

Lance’s brow collapses into a frown. He opens his mouth, eyes narrowing, but---

 

Allura shakes her head. “I was a fool to trust Lotor.” She looks at her two paladins. “As much as it pains me to admit it, we must take action. The black lion cannot fall into the hands of our enemies. And we must help Shiro.” 

 

Keith nods. “I agree. I’m ready to leave whenever Princess.” 

 

“Well, yeah,” Lance agrees. “But, Keith--” 

 

Allura stands. 

 

“Keith,” she says, touching his hand. He looks toward her, in time to catch her expression relax into something much softer than it has been. She pulls him into an embrace, enveloping him in a wave of her light perfume. “Words cannot express how thankful I am to see your safe return.” 

 

Keith blinks. Allura can be unexpectedly tender at times. It throws him off. “Thanks,” he says meaning it entirely but not sure what else to say, or if he should squeeze back. 

 

“Well then,” she pauses a final moment before stepping away. Her eyes are a little shimmery; she gives them a quick swipe before clasping her hands. “I’ll inform Hunk and Pidge of our departure. They’ll have preparations to make, I’m sure.” 

 

That leaves him alone with Lance. 

 

Lance is looking at the star map like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen. He touches the moon of one of the system’s planets and pinches his fingers, spreads them apart, increasing its size. He stares intently at the specs----radius: 294,619 kilbs, orbital period: 1.7 quintants, atmospheric oxygen saturation….

 

Keith hovers. His hands tug at the bottom of Lance’s jacket. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He wants to somehow express his gratitude for finding him, even if it wasn’t for the reason he hoped. He clears his throat. 

 

At the noise, Lance’s eyes jump to his. He stares a beat too long before ducking back to the moon, this time to read about the details of its elemental composition. 

 

“What?” 

 

Lance shakes his head.  _...the vanadium core is surrounded by a mantle of ice, with methane frost coating... _

 

Keith looks to the door and then back at Lance. Ah. He practically scoffs. Some things never change. “ _ She _ hugged  _ me _ .” 

 

“Huh?” Lance drops his hold on the holomoon, sending it gliding back into its orbit. 

 

“Allura---she’s just happy to see me or whatever, it doesn’t mean---” 

 

“That’s not---I wasn’t---” He looks at Keith. “Look. I am definitely not worried about that.” 

 

“Well then,” Keith shrugs, at a loss, “what is it?” 

 

“Nothing? I don’t know what you’re talking about, Keith,” Lance says, jutting one hip out dramatically. The smarmy grin doesn’t reach his eyes. He looks nervous. 

 

Keith sighs. He doesn’t want to say the wrong thing and cause an argument. 

 

“You really don’t remember?” Lance’s voice is timid. He flicks one of the more developed planet’s satellites out into deep space. 

 

“Remember what?” Keith remembers laughing together in the car. He remembers how right it felt to talk to Lance. He remembers Hunk saying “ _ Lance was so worried about you _ .” He remembers the unfiltered fondness that crossed Lance’s face when the first call connected. He remembers standing on the bridge, all those months ago, not too far from this room, thanking Lance as genuinely as he could, and how Lance felt wrapped in his arms…

 

Lance doesn’t answer. 

 

“I’m going to go see if they need help.” Keith says shortly. He stops for a moment, taking in the worry on Lance’s face, the stress he’s carrying in his shoulders. “You should rest Lance. I’m sure we’ll both need to be in peak condition for this.” 

 

“Right.” Lance says, subdued. “You got it dude.” He makes a clicking noise with his tongue and shoot a couple of finger guns at Keith. “Peak performance coming up.” 

 

It’s a few minutes later, when he’s halfway to the hangars, that Keith realizes he’s still wearing Lance’s jacket. If he pulls it tighter around himself, there isn’t anyone around to see. 

 

*

 

Pidge, rather than Hunk, is the one who nearly crushes him. Hunk, although his hugs lift Keith clear off the floor, snuggling him tight, is at least aware of his strength. Pidge, on the other hand, slams into him at full speed and squeezes with as much strength as she can muster.  

 

“Keith! You’re okay!” She keeps going, but her voice is a little warbly from tears and it’s muffled against his chest, so Keith only understands about every word in three. (Not an uncommon phenomenon, if he’s honest). 

 

“Pidge, I can’t breathe!” Keith huffs, settling his hands on her slight shoulders. Is she eating enough? He doesn’t remember her being this tiny. “I’m okay! I swear!” 

 

“The Blades should at least consider implementing a Buddy System Policy,” Hunk decides. “I, personally, am a big fan of the Buddy System in general, but when it comes to random alien planets?   _ Definitely _ Buddy System. Hardcore fan. For sure.” 

 

Keith nods, unable to wipe the smile off his face. “I’ll take it up with Kolivan.” 

 

“You should.” Hunk wags something that looks suspiciously like a socket wrench in the air between them. “Tell him, Hunk’s orders.”

 

“Thanks, guys, for coming to help me,” Keith says, a little stiff. “I really appreciate it.” 

 

Pidge punches him in the arm. “Of course, you dingus. What did you think we would do?” 

 

“Anytime man,” Hunk agrees. “Although, being fair, it was mostly Lance’s doing. Between you and Shiro, he’s been doing a lot of worrying lately.” 

 

At the mention of Shiro, their expressions darken. 

 

“Allura said we’d be leaving soon,” Pidge says quietly. “I just hope…” she shakes her head, choosing not to finish the sentiment. “He’ll be fine.” 

 

“He will,” Hunk confirms. 

 

*

 

The black lion is currently on board Lotor’s ship. Whether by choice, or not, they don’t know. Shiro is not responding to any of their messages; his connection with them seems to be severed. 

 

The plan is to send in a small team (Keith and Lance) on board to retrieve Shiro. If they need to fight their way out, so be it, but ideally they’ll come and go unseen. If things get bad, Hunk is prepared in the yellow lion, Pidge is their eyes and ears, and Allura and Coran have the castle on stand-by. 

 

It’s not a bad plan. Keith watches with interest from the side of the briefing room as Lance goes over the details. He explains the timeline, probable snags, fields questions from the others, all while appearing totally at ease. He was meant for this, Keith realizes. 

 

“You getting all this, mullet?” Lance raises his eyes to Keith, seemingly anticipating an objection. “I can slow down, if I’m losing you.” 

 

“Full speed ahead, sharpshooter,” Keith fires back, enjoying the way Lance’s ears color at the name. “You got me.” 

 

Keith enters the ship first. He’s done enough missions with the Blade for it to be second nature: a smooth sweep of the lazer-blade compass to etch open a circle in the hull of the ship, then he drops inside, the countdown to being detected already begun. 

 

Only this time, Lance is with him. And Pidge is directing them from above, while Hunk waits at the ready with the yellow lion. 

 

“I’m picking up vitals to your left, guys,” Pidge tells them through the comms. “About fifty steps. Be careful.” 

 

Keith leads the way, Lance close behind. He’s quiet. Keith hears the sharp intake of breath, however, when they see who is there. 

 

“Oh Lacy, how lovely to see you again.” Lotor looks up upon their arrival. He’s seated, back against the wall. His arms hang between his knees out of sight. Dark blood stains his temple and his lip is split. 

 

“And you’ve brought a friend,” Lotor sneers at Keith before turning his attention back to Lance.  “Half-Galra, by the looks of him. Best to watch out for those types, they can be difficult to handle, I’m told. False loyalties run rampant. Traitorous, the lot of them.” 

 

“We’re not here to chat, Lotor,” Lance says, drawing his bayard. He approaches, holds the sword dangerously close to Lotor’s neck. “What did you do with Shiro?” 

 

Lotor smirks. “Ah, you’ve gotten a handle on your rather embarrassing performance anxiety, Liam. That’s wonderful. They make supplements for everything nowadays.” He rises to his feet. 

 

Lance follows his movement with his sword. Rather than back away, Lotor leans into it, until the edge presses deep into his neck, deep enough that a few drops of blood run down the blade. 

 

“I’m at a slight disadvantage at the moment,” Lotor opens his mouth, the tips of his incisors cutting out deadly smile, as he towers over Lance. “But if you’d be so kind as to provide me with a weapon, we could certainly resume your lesson where we left off.” 

 

Lance swallows. His fingers twitch on the hilt.  

 

“Where is Shiro?” Keith repeats Lance’s question, his own knife steady in his hand. 

 

With a sigh, Lotor draws away. He motions as if he were going to toss his hair over his shoulder with a hand, but now they can see that his hands are bound together at the wrists. 

 

“Shiro?” Lotor paces to one side of the hall and back. Keith edges closer to Lance, just in case. “The  _ honorable _ Black Paladin of Voltron?” 

 

Lotor shrugs, just the slightest twitch of his shoulder as he halts his pacing to look down his nose at them. “I wouldn’t be able to say for sure. He boarded my ship unannounced, slaughtered my crew without mercy, and then bound me and left me here. I expect---” 

 

“He what?” Lance looks horrified. 

 

Lotor’s eyes are vertical slits, completely devoid of emotion. “Should you need to confirm, their corpses are littered throughout my ship.” He smiles, indicates a door to his right with a tilt of his head. “You needn’t take me at my word. Try that deck, leading to the bridge. The body count will be highest there.” 

 

Keith’s mouth is dry. Shiro…

 

“He’s looking for something, I believe.” Lotor continues. “What it is, I could speculate, but. I’d rather not,” he simpers sweetly, nose wrinkling just a little. 

 

“Keith,” Lance says, visibly shaken. His bayard drops out of his hands, collapsing to its latent form. “Keith, if it wasn’t Lotor calling the shots then---then that means Shiro is really…” He swallows, unable to say the words.  

 

Keith feels the thrum of the rock pulse above his heart. It somehow steadies his frayed nerves. Shiro--the real Shiro---thought he could lead once. And Lance is at his side. He picks up the red bayard. 

 

“Lance,” he says, touching Lance’s shoulder, “we’re going to get him back.” He hands Lance back his bayard. Lance blinks, looking into Keith’s eyes. Keith continues, gaze level. “You found me. We’ll find Shiro too.” 

 

“Touching,” Lotor comments. “Just absolutely heart-wrenching! ‘We’ll find Shiro,’ what remarkable naiveté! I have no doubt you will, my friends. But,” Lotor leans forward just slightly, causing Lance to take a step back, “what will he do with you when you do, Linda? Hmm?” 

 

“His name is Lance.” Keith snaps, annoyed. He’s been through too much to tolerate any more of Lotor’s bullshit rambling. 

 

He takes a step forward, effectively putting himself between Lance and Lotor. “I’m not as easy-going as Lance or as ‘honorable’ as Shiro. We’ll be going now, and after we leave this ship, you’ll have about 150 ticks until Altea’s finest cuts it in two. I suggest you start worrying about yourself instead of us.” 

 

Lotor’s eyes harden. “How int--” 

 

“And one more thing.” Keith slants his wrist, causing the knife that responds so graciously to his mother’s blood to lengthen into its most deadly form: “If you ever touch him again,” Keith flicks his eyes towards his partner, indicating the cut on Lance’s neck, “I’ll pay you back ten times over.” He holds Lotor’s gaze for a moment, sheathes his knife, then turns to go.  

 

“Wow.” Lance comments as they make their way further into the ship, leaving Lotor to find his own way. 

 

“Sorry. That guy irritates the shit out of me,” Keith grumbles.

 

“Thank you!” Lance throws up his hands. “Finally somebody with some sense! I swear, it’s like talking to the walls around here sometimes! I’m like, ‘dude’s bad news, guys,’ and everybody’s like, ‘hmmm Lance, I dunno, maybe---” 

 

“He’s definitely bad news,” Keith agrees. 

 

Lance beams at him. 

 

“Remind me never to piss Keith off,” Pidge remarks drily as they regroup. “Then again, we kinda already knew that.” 

 

“Remember that one time when we were supposed to be rescuing that guy and Keith turned it into a hostage situation?” Lance grins, swinging his sword. 

 

“Pretty sure that was multiple times,” Pidge snickers into the comm. 

 

“But, are we really gonna blow up Lotor’s ship? Because I don’t know if that’s really all that helpful to us overall.” Hunk worries.

 

Lance side-eyes him, lips pursed, waiting for an answer. 

 

Keith raises his eyebrows. “Uh. I dunno?” 

 

Lance giggles, tossing an arm around Keith’s shoulders. “It’s so good to have you back, man,” 

 

Keith resists the urge to lean into him, rest his head on the blue armor that he knows so well. They can’t waste any time. Shiro is on board this ship. 

 

“Shiro…” Keith says, and everyone on the comms falls silent. “If he really….did what Lotor said…”

 

“Paladins.” Allura hails them from the castle. “I am sensing a disturbing magic, not far off. Please be careful.” 

 

They take a corridor past the darkened bowels of the control rooms. They pass prison chambers, where a disturbing _ drip drip  _ echoes off the walls. The stone from the planet seems to burn a little hotter against Keith’s skin as they move deeper and deeper into the ship. 

 

In the ship’s archives, completely isolated from the outside world, they find him. 

 

*

 

Shiro stands in the center of the room. 

 

His back is to them. The room is not completely dark, purple hued lamps illuminate the walls, but even so, the galra technology grafted to his right arm glows dangerously at Shiro’s side. He must hear them approach; he twitches, looking over his shoulder. He finishes the robotic victim in his hands, ripping off its head and tossing it aside before turning towards them. 

 

“ _ Paladinss of Voltron _ ,” he hisses, although it’s nothing like Shiro’s voice, honey-warm and soothing. This voice cuts through the air like a whip and creeps up around the edges, slurring and ancient.  _ “We were expecting you ssooner _ .” 

 

“Yeah, well,” Lance starts but whatever jibe he was going to throw dies on his lips. 

 

Shiro’s eyes are bloodshot, much of the sclera dyed a horrible red. There’s a deep cut through his left eyebrow. The blood seeping from it mixes with the tears pooling at the lower lid, overflowing from the eye in turns. 

 

“S-self inflicted,” Lance whispers, sickened with shock. “Keith, he tried to…” 

 

“Shiro,” Keith takes a step forward, “Shiro it’s me, Keith.” He swallows the sob in his throat at seeing Shiro like this. “Shiro, let’s go home.”

 

Shiro raises his galra arm, opening the hand to reveal a glowing palm. Almost faster than Keith can track, Shiro lunges towards him, aiming to wrap that hand around Keith’s throat. Keith barely blocks the blow, his own sword crumpled against him under Shiro’s strength. 

 

Lance is at his side, sword transformed. “No!” He gets in between them, helping Keith to parry the blow. 

 

They stand, side-by-side, breathing deep, faced off against the man they came to save. He lunges again, faster, this time for Lance. Again, it takes both of them to hold him off. 

 

“Shiro,” Lance tries again, but doesn’t get anything else out before Shiro attacks. 

 

It continues like that, a mess of flashing blades and relentless blows until Keith’s hands are numb on his sword. 

 

_ “We will not be sstopped.”  _

 

He’s sparred with Shiro countless times---both at the Garrison and as parts of Voltron. This isn’t how Shiro fights. This isn’t even how ‘The Champion’ fights. This is illogical; he’s attacking without regard for his own body, not bothering to predict their movements, but just crashing through with brute force. It’s not long before Shiro is bleeding from more than just his eyes. Keith landed a solid hit to his chest, almost directly into his heart. Shiro didn’t even flinch. 

 

“I can’t do this,” Keith realizes, shoulders dropping, his knife going slack in his hands. “Lance, we’re going to kill him, I--I can’t.” 

 

Lance looks over at him, taking his gaze off Shiro for just a moment. “Keith…” 

 

It’s long enough. Shiro has Lance off the floor, human hand clutching his throat in an instant. His other hand is poised to finish him. 

 

“Shiro, please!” Keith chokes out. His hand closes around the stone in a panic. 

 

The air around him jolts to a standstill. Sound ceases to travel. Keith, wide-eyed, finds that he is alone. The shelves of information glow unaltered against the walls, but Lance and Shiro are gone. 

 

_ What? What happened, _ Keith takes a step forward, heart in his throat. No. 

 

No. He’s still here with them. Time is just….different. He closes his eyes, focuses, visualizing the scene. He moves, calculating where they are standing, how Shiro is positioned, where Lance is held. 

 

With an exhale, knowing that if this will work, it’s only something he can do once, he opens his eyes and drops the stone. 

 

“Lance! Now!” Keith appears between them, holding Shiro. Lance is crumpled on the floor, dazed, but he still understands what Keith means. Without hesitation, he transforms his bayard back into his gun, and takes his shot. 

 

It’s just to stun. Shiro attempts to shake Keith off, bloodshot eyes rolling as he tries to approach Lance. Lance fires again. Again, to stun. It’s enough this time.  

 

Shiro collapses, Keith under his arm, helping to slow his fall. Shiro’s knees buckle as he crumples over Lance, recognition blinking back into his eyes as he reaches for Lance’s face. “You found him,” Shiro says, his voice hoarse but his own. “I knew you would.” 

 

Lance is crying, his head bowed on Shiro’s chest, hand balled into a fist against Keith’s back. “I’m sorry, Shiro---I’m sorry, I never---I didn’t----” 

 

Shiro’s head sinks back against the floor. His human arm is still around Keith, but his other hand catches the back of Lance’s head. His eyes flutter; he’s barely conscious. “You guys okay?” 

 

“Takashi,” Keith stutters, “W-what about you?” He fumbles at the comm. “Guys, Shiro is b-bad, we need extraction, we need a healing pod asap, we need---” 

 

“I’m gonna be fine, Keith,” Shiro laughs weakly, “You can’t get rid of me this easily.” 

 

The team is blessedly fast. 

 

Keith on one side, Lance on the other, the three of them stumble towards the pod that Coran has prepared. 

 

*

 

Shiro is in stasis.

 

Now that the seal has been broken, the dark energy permeates even the air surrounding him, almost tangible in its intensity. 

 

“I cannot imagine living alongside this for so long,” Allura gasps, overcome with emotion, about how difficult it must have been for Shiro. She blames herself for not being stronger; Her own magic is pure and bright---it can only reverse so much before it’s overtaken. The healing process will be slow. 

 

*

 

It is difficult for all of them, not just Allura. The overall tone of the castle is muted. As soon as Shiro was stabilized, they all broke apart, trying to find some semblance of normalcy. Keith is restless. He sleeps a little. Trains a little. His heart won’t settle. 

 

He finds Lance in the common room. 

 

He’s sitting on the couch, alone, hands wrapped around a warm mug of something. When he hears Keith approach, he shifts, one hand raised in a “yo” kind of motion. His eyes get a little wider when Keith pops over the back of the couch and sits down next to him instead of walking past. 

 

“I was looking for you.” Keith says, holding out Lance’s jacket. “Need to give you this back, and also, uh, tell you something.” 

 

Lance takes the jacket back, folds it into a messy square before setting it aside, head bowed. He gets a little impatient, waiting for Keith to speak: “Okay, shoot,” 

 

Keith slips off his gloves, runs a hand through his hair. Maybe this was a stupid idea. 

 

He’s contacted Kolivan already. The leader advised that he stay with Voltron for at least a movement, both to monitor Shiro’s progress and to recover from his disastrous mission. (Keith’s phrasing, not Kolivan’s). So he’ll be here for awhile. He has no excuse. 

 

“Well.” Keith starts slowly. “You might not remember, but a lot of times...when we first got here, especially...you would talk about home. On Earth. And I didn’t hate it..Because we weren’t fighting. So. I kinda liked it actually.” Keith knows this is rambling, but he’s started so he has to keep going. “I especially liked when you talked about going to the beach. Because it seems really great. And I’ve never been.” 

 

Keith has been in actual battles that haven’t caused his heart to beat this fast. “I never told you, but I’ve actually never even seen the ocean.” He attempts a smile, meeting Lance’s eyes. 

 

Lance is gaping at him. 

 

“I’m not great at letting people in.” Keith brings his gaze back down, twisting the gloves in his hands. He wants this, but it’s so hard. “I had a lot of time to think, um, with the Blades and on L-ang-whatever...basically just since I left.” His eyes flick back up to Lance. He’s sitting there, mouth still parted, full attention on Keith, just. Listening. “I don’t know, it probably seems stupid, but I just thought if I didn’t,” he takes a deep breath, “have so many walls up, we could’ve maybe. Been closer.” 

 

“You really don’t remember…” Lance says, astounded. 

 

Keith stops looking at his hands. “Remember what?” 

 

“You already told me this. You told me ‘I’ve never seen the ocean,’ and I was like ‘Okay? What’s that mean?’ and then youkissedme,” Lance says in a rush, his voice squeaky, setting his cup aside. He coughs and says it again in a much deeper voice: “You kissed me.” He’s red from the collarbones that jut out from the neck of his baseball tee, all the way up to his hairline. 

 

“I-I did?” 

 

“In the storm? When we found you?” 

 

Keith shakes his head. 

 

“It wasn’t just like a peck, like  _ nice to see you buddy _ , I’m talking like,” Lance’s eyes aren’t on Keith, he’s staring out over his spread hands as if the memory is haunting him, words tumbling out of his mouth at break-neck speed: “I’m talking, full-on make-out sesh, like, spit swapping, there were tongues involved--- _ noises _ \----” 

 

“Lance.” 

 

Lance comes to an abrupt stop. He looks to Keith. “So that happened.” he finishes. 

 

Keith wets his lips. He kissed Lance? He wasn’t entirely lucid after the time skips….Oh. This is bad? Really bad? 

 

He tries to gather his thoughts, figure out what Lance is thinking. Difficult, especially when Lance now seems to be intent on studying the speckled ceiling of the common room as though his life depends on it. “I kissed you…” he begins. 

 

Lance nods. 

 

“And you’re mad about it?” Keith tries. 

 

Lance gets even redder, if that’s possible. He shakes his head. 

 

“You’re...not mad about it?” 

 

Lance nods, slowly, like he’s not sure if this is a trick. 

 

Keith’s heart is beating so fast he wonders it’s possible to die, not at the hands of the Galra Empire, or some other random alien, but right here, in the common room, from nerves. “You would---wanna do it again?” 

 

Lance squeaks. “Yes?” he says, like it’s a question. He seems to be expecting something, but when Keith doesn’t respond, he repeats himself. “Yes,” he answers, more vehemently.

 

“With me.” Keith confirms. 

 

Lance nods, much more enthusiastic. 

 

“Okay.” Keith nods too. His hands are shaking a little and he doesn’t know what to do with them. It’d be nice if this suit had normal pockets, like pants pockets, but that’s not even relevant right now? Lance wants….he doesn’t mind if….kissing. Fuck….that’s. Okay. Yeah. He gets up. “Okay. Good to know.” He turns to leave. 

 

“Wait! Keith!” 

 

“Huh?” 

 

“Is that it?” Lance asks him, incredulous. 

 

Keith points to the hall, in the general direction of the medbay. “I have to check on Shiro.” 

 

“Right!” Lance shouts, “Of course! Shiro! Gotta check him!” 

 

“Right.” One side of Keith’s mouth quirks up. “But afterwards…” 

 

Lance snaps to attention, waiting for Keith to continue. 

 

“How about you give me a reminder?” 

 

Lance continues to gape as Keith ducks out into the hallway. 

 

*

 

Afterwards doesn’t come as soon as he would like.

 

Pidge found him on his way out of the medbay, decided he needed cheering, and challenged him to an all out deathmatch on their bootlegged video game console. Which was, admittedly, great, until Hunk showed up and the conversation takes a turn toward the nerdy. They want to know more about the planet on which he was stranded. 

 

Lance shows up then, looking both excited to see Keith, as well as extremely skittish. He keeps trying to butt into the conversation, but falling silent whenever Keith turns to listen. 

 

The rock is imbued with a kind of time magic. It widens time, it slows it, it creates little pockets of moments drawn out. It’s not something that Pidge can explain entirely with technology (as much as she’d like to) or Hunk with science (though he tries). 

 

And then, naturally, Coran appears out of nowhere. 

 

Unsurprisingly, Coran is familiar with the rock. He takes the stone out of Keith’s hands, maddenly cheerful and says something along the lines of: “Oh yes! Holenite! Alteans loved it for parlor tricks, but it was considered a bit gauche to use it in earnest!” 

 

He appears on the other side of the room in the next instant, picking his teeth, apparently having taken a break to grab a snack. “Fascinating stuff, this! And they built an entire booming society around it, you say? Remarkable!” He pops a few feet over, this time looking freshly showered. “How fun!” 

 

“You know...” Lance says, trailing off. 

 

“It wasn’t that fun for me.” Keith finishes with a grimace. 

 

Pidge wrinkles her nose in sympathy. 

 

Hunk pats him on the back. “Aww Keith, you didn’t have a good  _ time _ ?” 

 

Lance groans. 

 

Keith blinks. “You could say I was  _ tick _ ed.” 

 

Lance puts his head in his hands. 

 

Hunk smiles maliciously. “We’re gonna get  _ clock _ ed.” 

 

Pidge closes her laptop solemnly. “I’m out.” 

 

“Right behind you, Pidge.” Lance gets up. 

 

“Right this  _ second _ ? Need a  _ hand _ ?” Hunk asks. When she shakes her head, he adds, “No need for  _ alarm _ .” 

 

“We could do this for  _ hours _ ,” Keith nods. 

 

Hunk giggles as they really do leave. “Yes! Galra-Keith strikes again!” 

 

Keith responds to his high-five without question. It really is good to be back. 

 

*

 

Once again Keith finds himself alone in his room. It’s familiar. What’s not familiar is the sense of ease that’s slowly seeping into him. He’s warm and well fed. Shiro is...safe, for the moment. His physical injuries are already healed from the pod. And, Allura is confident that, although it will take time, the deep unrest in his consciousness, the obtrusive magic that is stealing him away, can be undone. 

 

He stares up at the ceiling. It’s a different ceiling than the bunks’ of the Blade ships. It’s gray and white, which is somehow friendlier; it has that Altean flair---accents like….

 

Okay. He doesn’t give a shit about the ceiling. He wants to see Lance. 

 

Keith kicks off the blankets. He slaps the keypad on the wall, so hard that the door opens with a stutter. He’s barefoot, just in his boxers, which, honestly is probably not the best way to traipse around the castle, but...

 

He makes his way down the hall, one hand running along the wall since it’s dark. He’s halfway to Lance’s room when he realizes that this is really weird and he should just talk to him in the morning. He’s about to turn back when, 

 

He runs headlong into Lance. 

 

“Holy schnikes it’s dark out here, quiznack! Keith is that you?” Lance has a hand on Keith’s face and taps comically around as if trying to discern who it is. He stops abruptly when he realizes that Keith isn’t wearing a shirt. “Yep.” His voice cracks a little. “That’s Keith.” 

 

“Hi Lance.” Keith feels his heart lighten already. 

 

“Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Mullet.” 

 

“You do realize that’s not my last name?” 

 

“Sure it is,” Lance disagrees goodnaturedly. Keith can’t see him in the dark, but he knows Lance well enough to picture how one eyebrow arches up playfully as he says the next line, hand in a “V” over his chin: “So, since we had this completely-by-chance meeting, I gotta question for ya, hotshot: My room or yours?” 

 

“Mine,” Keith decides immediately. 

 

Lance makes a choking noise. Keith leans forward, concerned, and ends up bumping their foreheads together. He draws back with a curse, rubbing his head. 

 

“Ke-keith,” Lance laughs nervously, “You’re gonna be the death of me---I--that was a joke. Um. But. Okay.” 

 

Lance follows him back to his room. It’s a short walk but they have to keep stopping because Lance keeps pretending to bump into him, and so he keeps having to check on him as Lance’s pretend injuries get more and more dramatic: 

 

“My leg! Oh Keith! It’s cramping!” 

 

It’s not. 

 

“My toe! Ah! I’ve stubbed it! Keith, the pain!” 

 

He’s fine. 

 

“The fatigue! I’m done for! Go on without me!” Lance sighs, swooning through Keith’s open door. 

 

Keith catches him mid swoon. “Never,” he says, finally able to see Lance’s face. 

 

Lance’s eyes go wide and color rises to his cheeks. He slides one hand up Keith’s arm, gripping the back of his elbow. 

 

“Oh!” Keith says, as if alarmed. 

 

“What?!” Lance asks, snapping his hands back, away from Keith. He would move away, but Keith still has an arm around his waist. 

 

“I think I just remembered.”

 

Lance raises a brow,  _ remembered what? _ , is written over his face, but Keith is confident he’ll figure it out. He leans forward, pulling Lance a little closer. The smirk at the edges of his mouth relaxes as soon as Lance’s lips are against his own. When he opens them with gentle pressure, a sigh escapes as well. 

 

Lance leans forward, melting against Keith. He already has a hand resting heavy on Keith’s chest, but the other finds its way to Keith’s temple, where it plays at brushing stray hairs behind his ear. Keith finds he likes the sensation. 

 

“Like that?” he asks, a few moments later, when Lance is breathless. 

 

Lance’s pupils are wider than he’s ever seen them. He licks his lips, wet with Keith’s mouth. “Yeah, like that,” he says. 

 

He collapses against Keith, resting his chin on Keith’s shoulders, encircling him with his arms. His fingertips ghost over the small of Keith’s back, making it difficult for Keith to pay attention. “I wanted to be the cool one,” he mutters. 

 

Keith snorts. 

 

Lance is many things to Keith: he’s a little hard to deal with at times: loud, overbearing, dramatic. He’s funny, brightening up a room, constantly making Keith’s heart a little lighter. He’s hot: deep skin and long legs, wiry muscles, effortless flexibility. But. He’s far from cool. 

 

“Maybe next time?” Keith offers. 

 

Lance pulls back to look at him, pouting. His lips look so plush, it’s teasing. 

 

Keith runs a thumb over them, amazed that this is something he’s allowed to do. He kisses Lance again, hungrier, tasting the roof of his mouth, biting gently into the pretty moans that slip out. 

 

His hands are hungry too, enjoying the way Lance’s muscles tense under his fingers, the slope of his shoulders when Keith finally gets the Altean pajama shirt over his head. He eases them into bed, heart kicking in his chest when Lance winks at him ( _ faaaar _ from cool) and says something stupid about ‘liking where this is going.’ 

 

Having Lance underneath him---long, tan torso spread against the cream colored sheets---is a headrush. It’s like the first time he flew, boundless  _ good _ thrumming through his chest. It’s like poetry, the way Lance moves with him, a push and pull that suits them perfectly. But Keith doesn’t have the mind for adept analogies, not when Lance’s eyes are glassy like that, and his hair’s a mess and he’s stuttering out his breaths. 

 

(Keith won’t ever forget how he looks like this, turned on, repeating Keith’s name like it’s the only thing echoing in his mind). 

 

He has his mouth on Lance’s neck, hands at his waist, thumbs brushing over his hip bones. He has a hand around them both, hard and hot. He can feel everything as Lance arches into him, groaning. “Fu-uuck.”

 

Keith is not far behind, losing the higher function of his mouth, just aware of Lance’s hand over his and Lance’s breath on his skin and Lance and Lance---

 

What feels like ages later, Keith finally draws away, sitting back. One of Lance’s hands drops from his back to rest pilant against the bedsheets. His chest is still heaving but he smiles, lazy and sated, propping himself up as Keith grabs something to clean them up a little. 

 

Keith ducks his head, failing to hide the happiness that’s pulling at his mouth. 

 

“What?” Lance asks, wiggling against the pillow. 

 

“Nothing,” Keith says, settling back down beside him. Lance isn’t getting up to leave and he doesn’t quite know what that means, but he knows he’s grateful for it. 

 

“Don’t lie,” Lance wags a finger in the air over their heads. 

 

“I think that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you swear,” Keith muses. 

 

“I save my swears for special occasions,” Lance responds primly, which is absurd considering the position they are in. He continues, candid and quiet: “I’m surprised you noticed that.” 

 

“How could I not?” Keith asks, dropping drown from his elbow to the bed.  _ How could I not, when you mean so much to me _ ? The mood’s shifted, he feels exposed---like a live wire---electric and thrilling and terrifying. He puts his face close to Lance’s chest, closes his eyes. It’s a wordless request and somehow much more intimate than what they have just done. 

 

Lance responds perfectly, as if he can read all of Keith’s doubts. He pulls Keith close, brushing lips against the top of his head. Lance begins to murmur, “I was coming to your room tonight, not for me, I mean, a little for me, but mostly because I couldn’t think about you in here by yourself and being alone….not after all that time….” he trails off, “You might not mind it, but I think being alone sucks.”  

 

His hands are running up and down Keith’s back, gently stroking the ends of his hair. He continues to talk, soothing. “You better believe, buddy, we did not go and rescue you because we had to.” He prods Keith’s side. “If it was up to me, you wouldn’t be gone in the first place.” 

 

Keith closes his eyes. Lance continues, talking and talking, his usual bright voice mellowed for closeness. It feels like every intimate moment that Keith’s never thought he would have. His breathing slows and he just...relaxes. 

 

He feels Lance press his lips to the top of his forehead. “My Keith…” he murmurs.  

 

Keith’s eyes fly open, he pulls back slightly and cranes his neck to look at Lance.  

 

“I thought you fell asleep,” Lance says hastily. Even in the dark, his cheeks are so flushed. 

 

Keith reaches his hand to brush against them, to see if they are as heated as they look. He sits up, looks down at Lance on his pillow, staring up at him wide eyed. 

 

Keith lays his head back down. That’s something from which he will not run away. 

 

***

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Things To Think On:   
> Because I would like nothing more than to treat ao3 like one grand bookclub of which we are all enthusiastic participants: 
> 
> -Keith has said in canon about Shiro being the ‘only one who never gave up’ on him. What people have given up on Keith? Does he still feel like everyone is just one small misstep from giving up on him? At what point does he realize that it’s not just Shiro who won’t abandon him?  
> -Lance in canon is arguably Not That Deep, but in fanon he has wonderfully nuanced relationships with practically everyone. I particularly love him and Allura and, while it’s not my main ship, obvs, I do love to see them partnering up to take leadership over Voltron. But how does a Leader Lance interact with Shiro? Shiro isn’t one to relinquish leadership easily so it has to be through conflict….and how does that mesh with the idea that Shiro is canonically Lance’s hero? 
> 
> *
> 
> If you’ve read my other works I’ve mentioned before that I don’t listen to music while I write, but here are some tunes that gave me some ~moods~ and also some titles: 
> 
> Mojave 3 - Running With Your Eyes Closed   
> Placebo - Running Up That Hill   
> Great Lake Swimmers - She Comes to Me in Dreams   
> Stornoway - Zorbing   
> Stornoway - Get Low   
> (....actually everything about Stornoway is Lance to me, I don’t know why….but I love them)   
> Chris Staples - Dark Side of the Moon   
> The Format - On Your Porch
> 
> *
> 
> I said it in the beginning, but this isn’t really the story I thought I wanted to write post s5. What I really wanted to write was long distance, pining fluff. This got a little complicated, messy, plotty….It turned into something quite different from what I was imagining. But hopefully it was still nice to read, in its own way. And, Shiro, I’m sorry, I love you. Please forgive me for tazing you and putting you in a pod so Lance and Keith could make out. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who read, left kudos, or commented. Especially thank you to those people who commented on every chapter---- you help me so much and give me so much motivation. Thank you!!! <3 
> 
> Good luck to all of us as season six approaches……

**Author's Note:**

> do you thirst for klance retweets? boy have I got the twitter for you: @jacqulinetan


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